


Make Me Feel Alive

by sifshadowheart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Attack of the Plunnies, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Harry's a Figure Skater, Implied Mpreg, It's Helly's, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Slash, Slash, This is not my fault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 05:16:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 62,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9477221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifshadowheart/pseuds/sifshadowheart
Summary: Dying of boredom, Lily takes up Mum & Baby classes.  After Sirius and Remus forcibly take custody of Harry after the death of his parents, they continue them, leading their new son into a life no one ever expected.  Years later, Harry's grown up and done with Hogwarts, making a decision to continue a life the skating world thought he'd left behind when he was kicked out of his summer camp.





	1. Completely Oblivious

** Make Me Feel Alive **

A Yuri on Ice/Harry Potter Crossover

By Sif Shadowheart

Disclaimer: Yuri On Ice and Harry Potter and their accompanying characters and storylines belong to their legal owners.  This is a work of fanfiction created without compensation.

_Author’s Note:  Well…this happened.  I’ve pretty much thrown characters and plot from two stories into a blender and hit puree.  This is very non-canon compliant.  Also SLASH, since it’s me.  I’ve also changed the ages a bit with the YoI characters Viktor and Yuri to make them a bit closer in age as well as closer in age to Harry, so there’s that.  I should also mentioned that the events of HP were moved up to make Harry’s age more realistic._

**Chapter One: Completely Oblivious**

Viktor Nikiforov was the odds-on favorite to win another gold at the Men’s Single Figure Skating Grand Prix, which was set to begin at Sochi in two days.  It was familiar territory for Viktor, at twenty-four he’d been competing at the men’s single figure skating senior division for six years and had four golds at this competition to show for it, as well as four gold World Championships, and golds from the European championships, the Russian National Finals, as well as many others, even an Olympic Gold, though the last had been the hardest-won gold of his career as he’d been going through puberty – and his subsequent Gold Medal drought in the “unspeakable years” – at the time of the last Olympics, which were coming up again next year.  He wasn’t completely unbeatable, but at this point the Senior Men’s division was well-aware that winning for Viktor Nikiforov was more likely than not.

Frankly, he was rapidly approaching boredom and already considering that perhaps next year would be his last year.

He was approaching his late twenties, turning twenty-five this Christmas, which even for the best figure skaters was usually the death-knell for their careers – and that was barring any extensive injuries.

Viktor’s knees hurt more than they used to, the same with the rest of him.

And if there wasn’t a challenge anymore…why bother putting himself through it?

Viktor loved winning as much as the next competitor but it was the _competition_ , the _challenge_ of keeping everything fresh and new and surprising that he lived for…and that was starting to wane.

Coming up on twenty years into a skating career, he honestly didn’t think the skating world had much ability left to surprise him, and there was always someone younger and hungrier than you once you reached the top of the mountain just waiting to knock you down.

Maybe ending on a high really _was_ the best way to go…

But, in the end, those were all worries for another day, for on _this_ day it was two days until the beginning of the Grand Prix and the Men’s Short Programs and Viktor needed to join the others in his three-skater group 2 for their warm-up and practice sets.

At the Grand Prix Finals, like with many competitions, the lowest ranking skaters went first with the first-ranked skater going last, meaning Viktor was paired with the second and third ranked skaters for this first round, which might – and often did – change for the Free Skate programs two days after the Short Programs were complete and a new ranking took shape.

If that wasn’t enough to distract him from his troublesome thoughts, then the sight that met his eyes once he left the locker room in his plain black workout clothes _was_ as along with himself and his friend Chris, the top men’s senior skater from Switzerland who was ranked second this time for the opening short program, there was someone Viktor had never seen before taking the ice…and after watching the stranger skate a moment, that was the only way he could think to describe it.

The man – strong and almost too muscled for a sport that tended to emphasize elegance over athleticism – was dressed in unrelenting black.  But where Viktor claimed short silvery-blond hair, pale skin, and sparkling blue eyes to contrast with his standard all-black workout wear, the stranger had black hair pulled back in a tight braid and golden skin, Viktor unable to see his eye color from a distance.  And he skated like every move was a _challenge_.

Not to himself, but to the ice.

He didn’t elegantly glide or smoothly coast for his warm-up, no.

He _took_ the ice, as if challenging it to keep him grounded as his force and speed – for the few moments Viktor watched undisturbed – threatened to send him leaping into the air.

Viktor would be willing to bet, just watching him for those scant moments, that when this one took to the air, he didn’t fly or soar, but defied gravity to pull him back down.

The only person in recent memory Viktor could compare it to was either JJ Leroy from Canada who was infamous for his consistent jumps and verve or even the premier danseur from the Bolshoi he’d seen performing before the start of the skating season…other than himself, of course.

“Hey, hey Viktor!”  Chris called out in his attention-grabbing way as the Swiss skater came over to meet him as Viktor stepped onto the ice, the stranger tilting his head a bit but never turning or deviating from his warm-up spins and spirals.  “There’s my Russian heartthrob!”

“Hello, Chris.”  Viktor smiled warmly at his friend as they started to skate idle loops around each other, Christophe Giacometti staying in step with him as they chatted.  “Congratulations on your Gold in France.”

“Ah, thanks thanks.”  Chris fluttered his eyelashes a bit at the dashingly handsome Russian, his heart giving a little flutter along with them, even though Chris was happily coupled up with his hockey player, even Theo would agree that Viktor was worth a bit of a swoon.  “Double golds again for you this year, huh muffin?  Rostelecom _and_ Skate America, tsk.”  Chris shook his head in mock disapproval.  “So greedy.”

Viktor laughed along with his friend, Chris always knowing how to lift his mood as they both moved into a more intense warm-up, the two of them sticking to one end of the rink as the stranger stayed to the other side.

“Who’s that?”  Viktor finally asked as their warm-ups wound down and it was time to do run-throughs of their Short Programs.

“Hmm?”  Chris arched a brow then looked over at the dark-haired skater in surprise.  “Oh!  _Viktor_.”  Chris scolded in dismay.  “Why do you never keep track of the other competitions?  Or the other competitors besides your friends and rink-mates?”

Viktor just shrugged.  “You know I’m bad at remembering…”

“Yes, yes.”  Chris sighed waving a hand.  “If it doesn’t have to do with food, Makkachin, or your own routines, you have the memory of a goldfish.  Honestly, I’m surprised you even bother keeping track of me somedays.”  Chris craned his head around to check where the subject of their conversation was located then leaned in, whispering.  “He’s an out-of-nowhere competitor this year, _completely_ took everyone by surprise, eighteen years old, never competed in the Senior Division and _stubbornly_ stayed local to make a mark on the British Novice and Junior divisions, has been the Junior British Champion for the last two years but never goes international despite invitations, then shows up and snags golds at both the Scotland Regional Qualifier and the British National in the Senior division and – glory of glories – _accepting_ the invitation to move into the International sphere.”

Viktor raised his brows in surprise at that.  Now _that_ was odd, to say the least.  Skaters don’t just come from nowhere and step up into the international level their first year in the Senior division, making it to the Grand Prix.  It’s almost unheard of.  Viktor had done it his first year, and Yuri likely would next year, but they had been Junior International champions before that.  Not little national champions who refused to leave their little island home.

“Anyone know why?”  Viktor asked, referring back to their conversation after they both were finished with practice and heading out to eat, their silent group-mate still out on the ice, likely trying to maximize his practice time before the officials shooed him away.  Chris and Viktor both had solid Short Programs – and were veterans of this level of competition – not requiring every single second of preparation they were allowed.

“Hmm?  Oh, the delicious dark horse.”  Chris smiled knowingly at Viktor who blushed a little.  They’d been friends since they were sixteen and fourteen, Chris was well-aware of what kind of boys – or girls – his Russian dumpling preferred.  “Well, rumor – strictly rumor mind – has it that he was a rising star in the Novice division, much like you and Yuri were.  Then just as he made the jump to Juniors at eleven, he stopped competing Internationally and stuck to British competitions, doing just enough every year to qualify for the National, usually either short events during a weekend or more challenging cups on school holidays.”

“School.”  Viktor twigged it.  “He was at a school that didn’t have a competitive skating program.”

“That’s what the rumors say.”  Chris shrugged.  “He’s eighteen now, and whatever he was doing at that school must have worked despite it truncating his professional career.  Took Silvers at Canada and France, so I’ve seen him skate myself.  Very athletic and powerful, lots of stamina, but a little short on making artistic flair and presentation combine with his athleticism.”  Chris shrugged.  “He’s a bit rough and raw, like you’d expect from a skater with his background.  Needs a coach or a choreographer – or a better one if he already does.”

“What’s his name?”

“Harry.”  Chris answered with a smile.  “Only _you_ could be so completely oblivious to your fellow competitors, Viktor.  His name is Harry Evans, age eighteen, from either Wales or Scotland depending on who you ask.”

Hmm.  Viktor thought.  Very interesting.

…

The man in question was indeed squeaking in some extra rink-time.

Harry Potter-Black, known as Harry Evans in the skating world to buy him a bit of anonymity, needed every second on the ice he could get.

He only had two years after all, two years to decide if professional skating really was what he wanted to do with the next decade – give or take – of his life.  That was how long he’d asked for a hold on his post-Hogwarts offers.  And with Voldemort dead – really, truly dead – in his first year thanks to some help from his Dad Siri and Papa Remy, there really wasn’t anything to stop him other than himself and the expectations of the Wizarding World.

As far as _that_ lot was concerned, including the majority of his friends, he was taking the next couple years to do a “Grand Tour” and sow a few wild oats before settling down into a Quidditch career or teaching or becoming an Auror or Healer or Unspeakable or something else appropriately impressive.

With, naturally, a spouse followed quickly by two or three children to carry on the Potter name, since his younger brother Romulus Leo Black-Lupin had the Black title well in hand…or would someday since at four years old, Rome was a little young for finding a good match to make Lady Black.

It had all started with his Mum.

Lily and James Potter had decided, however reluctantly, that it was too dangerous to have them both out in the field fighting in the War, and since of the two of them James was the more vicious dueler, Lily was nominated for stay-at-home researcher, spell inventor, and Mom.

Still, even with everything on her plate, Lily was worried about going barmy tucked away in their little house in Wales for months or even years on end until Voldemort was defeated.

Remus was the one to save the day – and Lily’s sanity – with the suggestion of the Mam & Baby and Mam & Me classes that had been advertised at the birthing center where Lily and the three-of-four Marauders had all participated in her pre-natal classes.  A suggestion that Lily pounced on in a manner Moony would have been most proud of, signing herself and an infant Harry up for first Music and then a yoga class where until he was mobile Harry would hang out on Lily in a sling.  And as Harry grew and eventually became mobile, more and more were added, even if they were just once a month or so, James even stepping up and doing some at-home classes with Harry on more “manly” things like fencing, dueling, and both horseback riding and flying while Lily kept going back to the center and having a ball with baby gymnastics, baby dance, and baby art.

And then came the Halloween after his first birthday.

…

_Godric’s Hollow, Wales, All Hallows Eve, 1999_

“Prongs!  Lily!  Harry!”  Sirius shouted and screamed for them as he arrived at the wreckage of his best-friend’s cottage.

The Fidelius had been all well-and-good, but Sirius was a Black, as was his cousin James through his Mum, and to a one they were all a tree-full of paranoid bastards and bitches, leading the two of them to put up an alert ward that would warn him if anything violent happened inside the wards.

He’d been with Remus when they went off, the two of them hashing out some things that had seemed strange lately with their fourth friend, Peter’s, behavior.

Especially with Albus’s suspicions of a traitor in the Order.

It would have been easy – far too easy – for each of them to suspect the other, one a werewolf, the other a Dark Wizard, each drawn by nature to the Dark Lord and his Crusade and Cause more than their Lighter counterparts.

But they were mates, a bond deeper and stronger than family or friendship or loyalty.

And there was no _way_ they would doubt one another for one moment, no matter what the others, like Peter, whispered.

“It’s down, Pads.”  Remus yelled frantically as they piled off his enchanted motorbike, running pell-mell for the house with Sirius shifting into Padfoot to keep up with his enhanced werewolf speed.  “The wards, they’re all down!”

Pads gave a responding mournful howl as they both knew what that meant – Voldemort had found them.

If they were lucky, they’d find the bodies, mostly undisturbed from the Killing Curse.

If they weren’t, the scene they’d be walking into could be so much worse than just losing their pack-mates and their only pup and cub in Harry.

A howl that turned into a human cry, quickly joined by Remus’s own, as they found the still body of James lying face-up at the base of the stares – but that stopped moments later when they heard an answering cry, a faint young voice crying and calling for _“Mumma, mumma_ ” coming from up the stairs.

Without a second glance at their departed friend, Sirius and Remus jumped the stair railing, rushing up the stairs in disbelieving hope, feeling another piece of their hearts break off and shatter at the sight they found in the nursery – Lily crumpled and pale, lips already turning blue in the cold early-morning air, and Harry screaming and crying with a cut upon his head, pushing himself as far forward against the crib rails as he could, trying in vain to wake his mother with one hand outstretched in supplication to the still form.

Silver eyes quickly spotted the empty black robe, the scattering of ash, and the terror-inducing wand in the room.

“Get Prongslet.”  Sirius snapped as his mate as he rushed around the room gathering up a diaper bag, a set of clothes and jar of formula, and other things they’d need to take care of a toddler for at least a couple of days.

“Pads…what…?”  Remus asked even as he lifted a snuffling Harry up into his arms, wrapping him in the blanket Lily had knitted for him while she was pregnant in mint green with a golden edge, softly shushing and soothing him, trying to rock him to sleep as he watched his mate in perplexity.

“Look.”  Sirius pointed at the pile lying far-too-close to Lily and the now-empty crib.  “He’s gone, but something tells me not _dead_ , otherwise we’d be hearing the fights and cries and even celebrations all over the country by now as Death Eaters reacted to their marks disappearing.  But they’re not so _he’s_ not.  And Albus is going to know that.  You think he’s going to just blithely sit by and let this new “Prophecy Child” be raised by a Dark Wizard and a Werewolf?”  Sirius snorted softly as he swung the packed bag over his shoulder.  “I don’t _think_ so.”

“What are we going to do?”  Remus asked, panic kicking back up even as he kept his voice calm for the sake of the sleeping baby who had quickly worn himself out and let himself fade into sleep once his Uncle Moony had him safe in his arms.

Sirius gave one last pained look around the house before disapparating out to his motorbike, Remus right behind him, starting it up with a furious kick, he jumped on, Remus sliding behind him and maneuvering the pack into the saddlebags so it wouldn’t hit or jostle Harry.

“Gringotts first.”  Sirius yelled over the roar of the engine as they took off for the closest branch, which for Wales was very much a split decision between Dublin and London.  But then…why in the world would Sirius Black, let alone with Harry Potter in tow, ever visit Gringotts’ Dublin?  Without another thought he turned the bike west across the Irish Sea.  “Once the wills are ordered read and I’m officially recorded _there_ as Harry’s guardian, there’s nothing Albus can do about it!  And since the baby’s gone, they’ll have to look for both him and us before they try and lodge anything with either the Ministry or the Bank.”

_The Black Retreat, Spain, Two Days Later_

“Tell me, why have you come, grandson?”  Lord Arcturus Black, still strong and vital despite his ongoing and seeming never ending convalescence on the Spanish coast, demanded an answer from his visitor.  “Perhaps having to do with why Mims,” the Black Head Elf, “has informed me you have opened our most ancient stronghold and taken up residence at Castle Black with your mate and a child not your own in tow, hmm?”

Cantankerous old bastard, Sirius thought with no little affection.

“Always on top of things, even hundreds of miles away.”  Sirius gave a small smile after bending and giving the Lord of his House a proper kiss to the cheek in greeting.

“Naturally.”  Arcturus said as he waved his reprobate of a descendant down into one of the chairs in his sunny drawing room.  “As will you be one day, when you take up the mantle of Lord Black.”

Sirius snorted softly.  “Mother will do her nut when she finds out you never disinherited me, no matter what actions she took on her part.”

“Walburga is a hot-tempered and often unconscionable woman.”  The Lord said bluntly.  “I never should have given into my cousin’s request for a match between them.  Two least suited people I’ve yet to meet in all my years than my Orion and Walburga.  And I fear you and your late brother have paid a hefty price for my failure to rein them both in.  Now, tell me.”  He grew serious.  “What has transpired?”

“Jamie is dead, grandfather.”  Sirius reported, eyes and voice heavy with grief.

Arcturus lowered his head, shaking it slightly back and forth in the only expression of grief he would allow himself over the death of his beloved cousin’s son, then lifted his gaze back to eyes he’d given all his descendants in one shade of grey or another.

“And his young wife and son?”

“Lily…”  Sirius’s voice shook with repressed tears.  “She killed him somehow, Voldemort.  But he’s still not gone and I fear he’s going to return and come for Harry.”

“He’s with you then, good.”  Arcturus nodded firmly, feeling a large spark of respect for the pretty muggleborn witch his distant relative had married.  It was a more than formidable opponent who could take down a Dark Lord – however temporarily – even at the cost of their own life.  “And you _will_ raise him at Castle Black, yes?  If anything happens to you, he’s the next Heir.”

“What about Cissy’s boy or Andy’s girl?”

“Pah.”  Arcturus snorted in disgust.  “Malfoy may be rich and pretty, but that boy of his will be spoiled rotten, mark my words.  And your cousin, well, she had to have her own way with choosing her husband didn’t she?  Chose a muggleborn, which would have been acceptable if he had distinguished himself in anyway as a powerful wizard but no, not that ‘Puff.  Until you and that mate of yours deign to have a blood-child to carry on the House of Black, Harry will be the Black Heir.  Raise him to be as strong and great a wizard as his father would have been, as his grandparents were, my Sirius.  That’s all the advice I can give you, seeing as how I failed my own descendants.”

…

_Castle Black, Scottish Highlands_

“How’s he doing, love?”  Sirius whispered as he entered the nursery in the Lord’s tower of Castle Black, where he found his mate sitting and reading while keeping watch over a napping Harry.

“Fine, fussy from all the change, doesn’t quite understand yet, but fine for all of that.”  Remus reported, setting his tome aside as Sirius lowered himself elegantly down onto his lap, wrapping one arm around his strong neck.  “He doesn’t like the scar-removal paste from the Healers, but that nasty thing on his head is steadily disappearing, should be gone by the end of the week.”  He paused a moment to receive a soft kiss from his handsome love then asked:  “How did it go with your grandfather?”

“Got the go ahead to use the Castle, so that’s one worry taken care of.”  Sirius told him as he cocked his head a little to read the title on Remus’s book.  “ _The Grieving Child: A Parent’s Guide_?”

Remus shifted a bit uncomfortably.  “I know you don’t really understand the muggle _psycho-babble_ that Lily and I talk…used to talk about,” he caught himself, feeling his heart clench just a little at the slip of his tongue.  “But it has a lot of ways to help Harry deal with losing them Pads, especially since losing parents – and in such an awful way that he was witness to at least part of – so young and…” he hesitated a moment before finishing.  “Since neither of us is the kind to go in for mind healing or a muggle therapist, I think it’ll help us, well, _deal_ with what this war has done to our family too.”

“Ok, Moons, ok.”  Sirius soothed him, turning a bit on his lap and wrapping his arms around his mate, looking at him without a drop of teasing or joking.  “What does the book say we can do to help Harry?”

“We’ve already done part of it, making his new home as comfortable and familiar as possible.”  Remus told him.  “And there’s a whole list, but one of the big ones I think is keeping up his normal routine.”

Sirius nodded, understanding that bit.  Kiddos thrived on routine, Lily had beaten that into his head when she first had the pup.  Plus, and he’d never admit it to _anyone_ , not even Moony, but he’d read a book or two about kids and raising them when Lily first got pregnant.  Harry was the first child of their pack…and he’d been convinced he was going to completely bollicks it all up.

“Wait.”  His trained of thought quickly derailed when something poked through from a conversation with Prongs.  “You don’t mean all those…weird Mummy classes do you?  _Moony_!”  He whined, sounding far too much like his Animagus form.  “We’re _men!_   How are we going to take Prongslet to classes meant for Mothers and their children?  And where?  Cardiff is a bit of a jaunt from the Highlands you know…”

Remus laughed under his breath, Sirius’s reaction everything he’d hoped it would be.

“Yes, I mean those.”  He said firmly once he’d gotten his voice under control.  “But no, I don’t think it’s that big of a deal if we move him into ones in Edinburgh instead.  And we can take turns.”  He offered.  “I’ll do the more “mummy-centric” classes while you can take over ones that are more mixed with mums-and-dads or heavier on the dads, yeah?”

“Which ones were you thinking?”  Sirius asked, eyes still squinting suspiciously at his mate, sensing a trap.

“Well…”

...

Harry’s new guardians had kept their word, and Harry had started back up with his classes within a week, all the while oblivious to the political wrangling going on due to Sirius’s statement to the Wizengamot that _Lily_ Potter had been the one to defeat Voldemort, not _Harry_ and that he would not be moved to forfeit his guardian’s rights to the newly dubbed “Savior.”

Dumbledore had been pushing for Harry to be placed with his maternal aunt, in complete disregard for the wishes of his deceased parents who had explicitly forbidden that exact thing.

Then when he’d learned Harry hadn’t been affected at all – from what the old man could see – he’d spent months faffing about in frustration as all his attempts to work events in the favor of the Light were stymied by the guardians of the two most-likely bearers of the Prophecy.

Which his guardians – dubbed Dad Siri and Papa Remy within a year – told him as soon as they believed he was mature enough to understand it, about the time he was set to enter Hogwarts.

Remus and Sirius switched off squiring him to his toddler classes in dance and music and gymnastics, with Sirius taking up where his best-friend had left off with the boy’s “pureblood” education in the finer arts of the sword, dueling, and horseback riding, shaping him into a true all-around gentleman.

Harry soon became old enough to make his own wishes known, which was when his combined-style dance class was joined by ballet when an excited three-year-old pulled his Papa Moony over to the glass door of the ongoing class after Harry’s combined class and pointed rather urgently at the other little boys and girls in their tights and sparkly tutus.  Sirius had thrown a holy fit, not wanting his pup’s whole life to be taken over by pretty little girls in tutus and tiaras…at least not yet.  Harry had gotten his ballet classes, but he’d also been put in the tot’s karate class that was held at the same center as his gymnastics classes.

A smart man, and a trained educator, Remus had taken over his schooling, while Sirius dug into all the “horrible lordly shite” he’d avoided like the plague before he found himself suddenly possessing a ready-made family that needed to know their husband and dad was going to come home at the end of the day.  Harry had already lost one set of parents, and Merlin knew while he could be a giant prat, Sirius wasn’t going to deprive him of another.  The Auror office understood his position, even though with all the losses in the war they hated to see him go.

But it was a good thing he did.

Because after almost ten years of being Heir and later Lord, Black, and watching his pup grow from tiny toddler into a handsome and very talented athlete, one day Voldemort came back.

And Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were right there when Harry called them in a panic over a loose troll in the school, arriving within minutes and launching an investigation that ended with the end of Voldemort in a four-way duel between fathers-and-son and the Dark Lord, who actually managed to stay dead this time.

…

_Sochi, Russia, Present Day_

None of that was on Harry’s mind that morning however, as he practiced his routine in the quiet of the rink until he was shooed out to make room for the next group to practice their routines.

No, all that Harry was thinking of was the decision he’d made to put his _other_ life on hold, the life everyone wanted for him, while trying to create another life out of a childhood dream, the life that _he_ wanted for himself.

Somedays, when his feet were bleeding and his whole body hurt from practicing the same jump over and over again, he gave thought to owling one of the professional Quidditch teams and changing careers – for all of a minute.

Then, his love of the sport and his ability to nearly make himself fly without a broom when he leaped from the ice took back over.

Two years, he’d promised himself.

Two years to either meet his goal of a gold in a major international championship or to go home.

With the British Gold under his belt in the Senior division and taking second at both of his qualifiers for the Grand Prix this year, he wagered he was well on his way.

It helped that his return to the international ice in the Senior division had been totally unexpected by the skating world after spending seven years stubbornly treading water in the realm of the British Juniors – much to the frustration of many, especially his former teachers and the coach whose summer camp he would attend before being kicked out for lack of commitment to the sport.

Though, he laughed to himself as he changed alone in the locker rooms, he supposed he could’ve picked a more _realistic_ goal considering who he had to compete against on the Senior International level.

Viktor Nikiforov was a _beast_.

A beautiful, artistic, graceful skater, but a beast nonetheless known for being the first skater to land a quad flip in competition as well as for the height and distance of his jumps.

Harry was athletic, one of the most athletic figure skaters Britain has put up to the international level in _years_ , and he knew that and played it up with high-energy and high-intensity programs that scored well technically but usually took hits in the performance scoring.

Viktor could do it _all_.

And worse, for anyone attempting to win against him, he _did_.

He wasn’t inconsistent like a lot of other skaters since leaving his two years of puberty hell behind, he didn’t seem to ever get nervous or to psych himself out.  He just composed unique routines and then performed them flawlessly…usually, since even a near-perfect skating machine like Russia’s prince got marked down for mistakes every now and again.  _Performed_.  Harry mused a bit over the word as he shrugged into his heavy coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, shouldering his bag with his workout equipment as he prepared to brave the icy Russian winter for a cab back to his hotel.

Thankfully, with as many skaters with their teams, organizers, and other personnel coming and going, cabbies were spending a lot of time hanging out around the entrances at the rink and the official hotel.

That was it, Harry decided.  Viktor performed.  He was an actor, his routine was the story, and the ice his stage.  It was no wonder audiences and judges alike loved him.  He could become anyone based on the story he decides to tell each season.

This year he was being a bit morbid from what Harry’d caught of his gold-medaling performance at the Rostelecom Cup in Moscow, going with music from _Requiem To a Dream_ and Motzart’s _Lux Aeterna_ from _Requiem_.

The Requiem theme the Russian had chosen had a lot of fans and commentators worried he might be considering retirement after this season.

Harry didn’t really have an opinion on the matter either way.

Yeah, it would suck to lose such a talented skater, but it would make winning easier without Viktor to try and topple from his gold medal domination.

But then…

Harry startled the receptionist at his hotel with an out-of-character grin, having cultivated a reputation as a bit of a recluse since he didn’t really have the connections to other skaters that most of them did, what with taking a massive step back from the sport pretty early on.

What fun was winning if it wasn’t against the best?

And say what you liked about Viktor Nikiforov…he certainly was that.

Plus, it wasn’t like he was hard on the eyes, either.

…

 


	2. Dreamers Duel

** Make Me Feel Alive **

_Author’s Note: A little bit of drama here, as well as my first ever attempt at writing a figure skating routine.  Have mercy on me, I’ve been researching like crazy to figure out what everything is called and what the rules are/would be for the routines, etc._

**Chapter Two: Dreamers’ Duel**

“Har- _ry!_   Wait up!”  A shout reached his ears on the day of his short program, the athletic skater turning towards the voice that came from behind him as he pushed his way through the rink doors as he arrived on time to get warmed up before his actual warm-up on the ice prior to their event.  The women’s short programs were currently in progress on the ice, with families, sponsors, fans, news agencies and other sundry people loitering all around the complex.  Turning, Harry gave one of the crooked half-smiles that he was becoming known for on the circuit, and waited as requested for the other skater who’d hailed him.

It was Phichit Chulanont, the up-and-coming skater from Thailand who had placed third behind Harry and Christophe Giacometti in France before taking the gold – and being the first Thai skater to ever do so - at the Cup of China as well as being the first Thai skater to ever make it to the Grand Prix Final.  The gregarious and, well, _perky_ Phichit had introduced himself by way of asking to take a selfie with the mysterious newcomer to the international level, and had bubbled his way into becoming Harry’s only friend on the circuit.  He reminded Harry – just a bit – of Colin Creevey…only a lot less annoying and less like a stalker.

Phichit meant well, and was the sort of person who never met a stranger, making him almost impossible to dislike.

“Hey Phichit.”  Harry greeted him when the smaller Thai twenty-year-old finally caught up to him and – naturally – snapped a quick selfie with Harry before they started off towards the men’s locker rooms.  “How’re you?”

“Great!”  Phichit gushed.  “I’ve taken tons of pictures!  Haven’t you seen them?”  He frowned, consternated at Harry’s head shake.  “Why?”  He asked perplexed.  “Are you on media blackout before the end of the Final?”

He could understand that, Ciao-Ciao, Phichit’s coach Celestino Cialdini, used to have to do that with Phichit’s best-friend and former rink-mate Yuuri before he got hurt two years ago and had to go into early retirement.  But Yuuri _had_ finished his degree in Detroit before being injured, and was still able to skate…just not at the international competitive level.  It was a shame, because Yuuri was one of the better emotive ice skaters Phichit had ever trained with.  He was doing choreography now with the Japanese National club and sometimes taking independent contracts to do someone’s program…which without the expenses of competing was doing more to help support his family’s ever-decreasing onsen in Japan than his professional skating career had.

Harry chuckled at Phichit’s cute facial expression, explaining as they went into the locker rooms and split off towards their assigned dressing/locker areas.

“No, Phichit.”  Harry raised his voice a bit to be heard.  “I don’t do social media at all, remember?  If you want me to see your photos you’ll have to send them to my phone or email.”

Phichit pouted, remembering that about Harry now.  He’d tried to tag the younger skater in some of their pictures from France only to find out that there wasn’t an official page, just some fan pages that people had put up.  Some of the skating fans – and even more of the groupies – were really into his “mysterious” appearance in international men’s skating.

Though the older man was sure that Harry’s “dashing” and “delectable” – both quotes from said fansites – looks helped boost his popularity as well.

Goodness knows good looks had done that same for Viktor Nikiforov and the up-and-coming Junior champion skater Yuri Plisetsky.

It wasn’t quite _fair_ but at their level of international competition, finding a skater who was less-than-attractive was quite rare – and usually a testament to their skill and determination.

Fans – and judges – were the same as everyone else and made judgements about people, in this case skaters, based on their appearances.

It _wasn’t_ fair, but unless the entire world suddenly stopped judging on looks, it also wasn’t something that was going to change anytime soon.

“Why?”  Phichit asked plaintively as he rounded the corner, dressed in his costume.  They all did their stretches and warm-ups in them, so they didn’t cool-down while changing before their performances.  Just throwing on a jacket over top of the costume usually to keep it from getting damaged or stained before hitting the ice.  “Seriously?  Why?”  He asked again as all his question got him was an arched brow.  “If you posted a picture dressed like you are right now, you’d have thousands of hits and likes before you even hit the ice and at least a million by the time we start the Free Skate.”

The Thai skater was sure of that, taking in the slabs and slabs of muscle on the younger man.

It just wasn’t _fair_.

Phichit could work himself into the ground and he’d _never_ get that ripped.

Like a lot of skaters he ran to lithe and flexible, the last a requirement for a lot of the more “elegant” moves like the Biellman or an Ina Bauer.

Harry may be flexible, but he sure as shit wasn’t lithe, Phichit was pretty sure his muscles had muscles, which were all on display as Harry had only just gotten done lacing himself into his plastered-on-tight leather pants – those things _had_ to be half spandex, there was no other way Phichit could rationalize Harry skating in them – and topless with the pale green tunic shirt that went over his white leather pants in his hand, his hair still loose and left to hit just under his shoulders.

“I don’t think so, Phichit.”  Harry refuted his statement.  “There’s no _way_ that a picture of me half-dressed would ever get a million likes or hits or whatever.”  Seeing one hand twitch towards a phone he added hastily: “Not on a new account.”

He was well-aware that Phichit was very active on social media, they’d had a conversation about it before – well, more like Phichit chattered along and Harry just nodded in appropriate places but, anyway – and had nearly as many followers, if not more, as some less-active but more widely-known skaters like Viktor.

“Wanna bet?”  Phichit asked with a mischievous grin as some of the other skaters started to arrive and overheard them.

“Who is betting on what?”  JJ – one of the more annoying skaters – asked.  “That JJ Style is going to _crush_ this thing?  That’s not a bet, that’s a sure thing.”

Harry groaned and rolled his eyes, several of the others echoing his sentiment as Phichit turned to correct the irritatingly cocky Canadian, Harry muttering, “narcissism is an actual mental disease.  You can’t hit someone for having a mental disease.”  Like a mantra to himself much to the entertainment of Chris who had the area closest to him with Viktor on the other side of Chris, and easily overheard him.

Chris was also _very_ appreciative of the view of shirtless-Harry, a show he’d missed out on in France with the way their programs were scheduled, though he noticed that Viktor wasn’t exactly blind to it either.

“No, JJ.”  Phichit said with far more patience than Harry could ever manage.  “I was telling Harry – who is stuck in the dark ages and social-media-less – that if he posted a picture of himself dressed like he is now, he’d get a million hits by the time we perform our free skate programs.”

The other skaters, including Michele Crispino or Micky, all turned almost as one to look at Harry who at this point had leaned over to rest his blushing face in his hands.

“He says no way.”  Phichit finished before turning back to his embarrassed friend.

“I’m with newb.”  JJ said with an obnoxious shrug.  “There’s no way.  Not with his being a total scrooge with personal info and social media to gain a fan following.”

“No, no.”  Chris hurried to correct JJ’s egregious statement.  “Our _petite_ is right.”

Not that Chris had any _personal_ interest in having a topless picture of Evans for himself…no, not at all.

Grumbling about wanting to get ready in peace, JJ snapped: “Why don’t you just do it then and see?”

“What do I get when I win?”  Harry asked, lifting his head and staring at the little monster to had spawned this whole thing with his phone-addicted self.

“I’ll never bug you about your anti-social media ways ever again?”  Phichit said earnestly.

Harry narrowed his yes.  That might actually be worth it.  It wasn’t even that he was shy.  He just didn’t see the point to social media.  Of course, he’d been raised – mostly – in a society that redefined ludditism so his lack of understanding wasn’t a huge surprise even to himself.

A solid minute of starting and Phichit broke.

“I want you to bring your, ah, _friend_ to the banquet after the end of the Final.”  He admitted, thinking to himself.  So I can take hundreds of pictures, including several selfies with him and maybe get his autograph…

“My friend?”  Harry arched a brow, needing a little more than that.

“The one who picked you up from your hotel room in Paris.”  Phichit explained.  “You didn’t introduce us but…”  He left the, _I saw you both leave looking freshly shagged_ unsaid.

“Sure.”  Harry shrugged.  It wasn’t like he was going to lose anyway.  “He’ll be here for the free skate so that shouldn’t be a problem.”  He dug out his phone and tossed it to Phichit.  “Take it quick, I’ll set up the account while you’re warming up, I’m starting to get cold sitting around like this.”

…

Phichit ended up gushing again – this time about the camera on his phone.

When Harry had gone to get set up with a cell phone for use in his life as a skater, he’d gone with one of his friends that managed to cross the muggle/magical divide who had helped him get through all of the contracts and purchasing and setting up his account.  Harry had let him pick his phone and a protective case too, which was black with green flames on the bottom-back.  His friend had apparently picked not only one of the most expensive phones – after relentlessly mocking the iPhones on display – but also one that – according to Phichit – had the best camera on the market…which Harry rarely used, a crime to his hyper friend.

Waiting for his turn on the ice as he kept himself limber and warm, Harry tapped through the set-up screens on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram – all on Phichit’s insistence, on his Google Pixel.

The apps were all pre-loaded, and pulled information from his Gmail account so that part was easy enough, though with his common name he had a hard time getting a name/handle for the apps, eventually going with @RealHEvansFS.

True to his word, he added Phichit, then uploaded the picture the Thai skater had taken of him sitting on the locker room bench sans-shirt before setting his phone aside and turning it off, putting in his earplugs as he watched the screens as the other skaters performed, eventually moving over to the waiting area when JJ was going on.

It was almost time, Harry was skating next.

…

Chris stood next to Viktor – who had an even-for-him unusually-red-and-scowling Yakov at his side, with a normally-scowly Yuri next to him – as they watched Harry take the ice.

Really, Chris couldn’t be blamed if he got a little hot-and-bothered at the sight of the younger man.

And he wouldn’t blame Viktor for it either.

Harry’s short program costume was more than a little sinful with those leather pants that Chris would pay good money to watch the man either strip off or put on – either way it was sure to be a show with how they clung to every last inch of him, laces going up the sides showing a good inch-and-a-half gap of gold-kissed skin crisscrossed with white leather ties – and a tie-up fly to finish it – and Chris’s self-control – off.  He’d topped it with a floaty shirt that lent a hint of innocence to the very-sexual pants, and pulled his hair back in a soft tail.  Harry also wasn’t afraid of a little make up to amp up his performance unlike some male skaters, going with just the slightest dusting of silver flecks on his cheekbones and temples with a hint of green around his gorgeous emerald eyes to make them pop.

Moving to the center of the ice, Harry took his opening position with his eyes lowered demurely, one hand lifted to cup his own cheek and the other crossed protectively over his stomach with one leg straight and the other slightly forward in a pointed fifth position.  It was a picture of near-vulnerability that had you holding your breath – especially when the music came up and he spun out, hands still in place before lifting his arms and the program really began.

Viktor’s eyes widened a bit in surprise as he murmured to his friend: “I thought you said he wasn’t good at the artistic skating.”

It was _I Dreamed A Dream_ from _Les Miserables_ , but not arranged in any fashion the Russian had heard before – though the announcer _had_ said that it was arranged and performed by some rock star he’d barely heard of – and then only because Mila likes his music.  Not the vocal track, no.  Somehow the musician – and Harry’s skating – managed to convey the heartbreaking words of dreams lost and torn away without the iconic lyrics.

They – and the audience – watched in awe and quiet applause as Harry left his opening step sequence and all-but _flew_ into the air, landing the triple axel perfectly, transformed in that moment from a weary – and almost broken – young thing into one defying the very air to hold him down.

Harry was deaf and blind to the roar of approval from the crowd or the commentator’s remarks, even the eyes of his friends and family who had made it to watch his short program, as he landed the axel and went almost immediately into a flying sit spin then moments later skated into the air once more in another jump – another axel this one a double that all-but-melted into a spiral, then the required spin combo with the change of foot – his least favorite requirement.  As the music kicked up and the second half approached, he glided into a second step sequence.  One that took him into the second half of his short program and as the music rose, he rose with it, leaping into one of his two quads, both of which he put in the second half out of necessity – other competitions had proven that he needed the points buff to be competitive against the veteran skaters.

 _“Ooh_.”  The crowd groaned with Phichit as Harry stepped out of his quad salchow in his jump combination, only to cheer as he perfectly hit his triple loop then they _roared_ with the music as he made last jump – his second quad, a quad loop with only a minor error – at least he thought.

Coming close to the end, he flowed into an Ina Bauer, finishing his elements with a layback spin, then swirled back into place, the very picture of a broken dreamer with his right knee on the ice and his left extended and toe pointed, forehead resting on his upright knee.

“I don’t know what world you’re living in, _priyatel_.”  Viktor commented as he tore his gaze from the beauty on the ice as Harry rose and greeted the crowd before picking up one of the favors thrown by the audience and moved for the kiss and cry where even from the staging area Viktor saw several people clapping and cheering the Brit on.  “But that looked elegant to me.”

“Made mistakes.”  Yakov grunted beside him, arms crossed over his chest.  “Stupid mistakes.  Novice mistakes.”

“I could land that salchow at twelve.”  Yuri sneered, unimpressed by the skater the two older competitors were drooling over.  It was sickening.  “He’s nothing special, Vitya.”

“Wait until you see his free skate.”  Chris said as the ice was cleared for him, smiling a bit at the score that flashed on the screen, pushing Harry into first place while he waited for Chris and Viktor to skate.  “Then you’ll see what I mean about him being _athletic_.”

…

“Go, go Harry!”  Rome cheered, Harry picking him up and swinging him after he’d put on his skate covers and leather jacket with the Union Jack leather working that covered his upper arms from shoulder to the bottom of his biceps.

Smiling down at his little brother, Harry handed over the stuffed wolf he’d grabbed from the ice, the sweepers busily collecting all of the flowers and toys and other assorted offerings the fans threw.

It wasn’t the first time Harry had picked up a stuffed wolf for Rome and as a result, the toys tended to be canine-themed.

Rome would get to keep the one Harry picked up – unless he spotted one in the bags he’d rather have – while the rest would get donated to relief agencies or family and children’s shelters around the area.

“Well?”  He asked his small group – his Dad and Papa, a still-cheering Rome, and his Viktor, his friend Viktor Krum who had taken the day to come out and see him.  None of them would make it to the free skate, between the full-moon and the Vulture’s match in two days, so having them there for the short program was extra special.  “How’d I do?”

He glugged back water and wiped his face of sweat, moving to the bench with the cameras on it in the Kiss and Cry, picking Rome back up and onto his hip as he went, sitting him on his lap as his dads sat on either side of him, Viktor standing just behind as they waited for his scores.

“You did wonderfully, as always, cub.”  Remus told him with a soft smile, then gesturing towards the prompters that were blanking in preparation for showing his score.

A score which was met with a smile from him and cheers from his family and the audience.

100.95, Harry was currently in first place edging out Phichit by just over two points, but more importantly, he’d broken his personal best for the short program and the “hundred-point-ceiling” that many skaters aimed to break in their Short Programs.

…

Harry ushered his family and Viktor out of the Kiss and Cry, knowing that Chris would be up soon and they needed to clear it.

Then he remembered that Chris’s routine would be starting any second.

“Hey, Papa?”  He said too quietly for his little brother to hear as they moved over towards the viewing area set aside for the skaters and their guests.  “You should probably take Rome and get him a souvenir…or something.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”  Harry chuckled lowly.  “Chris is up next and his program isn’t _exactly_ something appropriate for a four-year-old.”

“Ahh, the Swiss guys who won in Paris, right?”  His Dad asked, with a knowing smirk.  “He’s right, Moons.  You were home with Rome for that event.  Just trust our pup when he tells you that unless you want to be having the _Talk_ with Rome way too early, he needs to go shopping – away from the monitors – for the next five or six minutes.”

Brows arched over amused golden eyes Remus asked:  “That bad?”

“Worse than you’re probably thinking.”  Harry said dryly.  “I’m pretty sure Chris gets excited by a stiff breeze blowing in the right direction.  And his routines tend to end at a _peak_ point.”

“Ahh…”  Remus chuckled, shaking his head.  “Your dad and I will go with the Moonlet to go buy some posters of his brother to add to his collection or something.  For five or six minutes.”

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief.  “ _Thank_ you.  I’m just starting to get to know these guys.  I’d hate to have to bitch one of them out for tainting my baby brother’s eyes.”

“Daddy, what’s tainting mean?”  Rome asked innocently as he caught the tail-end of their conversation as the reporters who’d been waiting patiently – at least as patiently as reporters got – moved in when it looked like the family moment was over, more than one clearly getting the gist of the discussion from the amused and knowing expressions on their faces.

Sirius started to explain as Harry’s family left towards the souvenir shops set up in the lobby, the two fathers each holding one of Rome’s hands and swinging him every couple of steps.

“I need to go too.”  Viktor whispered regretfully, knowing that there was no time for a kiss or anything with the reporters barely held at bay and moving in fast.  Leaning in Viktor passed off the envelope his coach had pressed on him under the guise of exchanging continental double-cheek kisses with the other man.  “Your Papa was right, you were spectacular.”

As the music rose, Harry sighed at Viktor’s back, tucking what was sure to be another offer of playing for the Vrasta Vultures in his inside coat pocket before moving over to the hallway as Chris moved into his short program.

Away from the audience and the ongoing performances, Harry started with a question from one of the international sports reporters he recognized from his last two competitions.

“Harry, how does it feel to be in first place after beating your own personal best?”  The woman from Britain’s Sky Sports asked.

“Amazing.”  Harry smiled his trademark crooked half-grin.  “And a little unbelievable.  We’ve got some great skaters here competing today and I’m just glad to be one of them – and on top even though with Chris and Viktor still to go that could change in a matter of moments.”

“Harry, the skating world is buzzing with rumors over a rise through the ranks that many are describing as meteoric, what do you have to say to those who call you a fluke?”  A man with a heavy Chinese accent asked.

“Well, I’m definitely not a fluke for one.”  He chuckled, the reporters laughing with him.  “I’m lucky I guess, since I waited to compete internationally until I was finished with my difficult body changes as I grew, I was able to come out here and perform to a high standard.  If my rise is meteoric, then it’s because for me there’s nowhere to go but up.  Ok guys, I’d like to go watch Viktor compete, the same as you lot I’m sure.”  They all laughed.  “One last question.”

“Harry.”  A petite younger man he recognized from the British nationals got his question out first.  “You’re notoriously close-mouthed about your private life, shunning social media and questions from the press.  How do you explain your new social media presence and the eye-popping picture you posted earlier tonight?  Were you aware it’s already received over ten-thousand views?”

“No, I wasn’t aware.”  Harry shook his head, mentally cursing himself for going along with Phichit.  He _hated_ having to go to any kind of stuffy formal banquet and the Thai skater knew it.  “I made good friends with Phichit in France and he’s been after me to take control of my social media presence – mainly by having one.  The picture is involved with a personal bet between us, nothing more, nothing less.  Thank you everyone, I have a routine to watch.”

Breaking away – and blushing madly out of both embarrassment and irritation with himself for going along with his friend over that picture, Harry fished out his phone from his pocket as he took his seat next to his now-returned family who were watching as the sweepers cleared the ice between Chris’s and Viktor’s performances, the former bravely smiling as he was interviewed himself.  Checking the leader board, Harry saw at once what was putting a bit of a quiver in Chris’s upper lip and had his boyfriend rubbing at his lower back.  He was in third behind both Harry and Phichit.  If Viktor stayed true to form, Chris would have to skate his ass off – or hope for one of them to fuck up – if he wanted to medal at the Grand Prix this year.

“I caught a bit of that performance while distracting your brother.”  Remus said in an undertone as Harry started flipping through the mass of notifications on his three new accounts with incredulous eyes.  “Thanks for the warning.”

“No problem, Papa.”  Harry replied absently as he cursed mentally when he figured out how his picture had gotten so popular and his Facebook so many friend requests in a little more than an hour.  Phichit had added him and tagged the shit out of his pages and picture.  Harry was kicking himself for forgetting to stipulate against that.  But then why would he?  Before an hour or so ago, he didn’t even have a social media account.  “I’m going to _kill you_ Phichit.”  Harry turned and hissed at his friend who was watching him flip through his phone with a smugger-than-smug expression.

“Can’t.”  Phichit chirped as he handed a now-signed poster back to Rome.  The little monster had gotten all of the nearby skaters to autograph his GPF posters – male and female.  He definitely had gotten the lion’s share of Siri’s charm.  “Your little brother likes me too much.”

Harry just growled to shame Moony as he quickly uploaded a fairly innocuous picture, a selfie Rome had taken of him and Harry while playing with his brother’s phone in the Kiss-and-Cry, so that he had something else to be his profile picture than him topless.

“That won’t work forever, you little bastard.”  Harry muttered under his breath as Viktor took off his jacket and skated out to center ice, Harry stowing his phone to finish fiddling with his new accounts later, wanting to take full advantage of the first time he’d see Viktor Nikiforov compete in person.

“Yes, it will.”  Rome chirped back, exchanging a high-five with Phichit before everyone quieted in expectation of Viktor’s music starting any moment.

“Wow, pup.”  His dad Siri murmured too low for Rome or the others seated around them like Phichit or Sara and Michele Crispino to overhear.  “No wonder you wanted to come back if it puts you around blokes like _him_ all the time.”

 _Him_ , of course, referring to Viktor who had taken his opening pose on center ice, dressed in head-to-toe black with only the slightest of silver embellishments.  With his short hair braided wildly and just enough smoke edging his eyes to give the impression of a death shroud – but a sexy one, because it was Viktor, who was as different from his famous Lilac Fairy performance as possible.

The music rose for the last time that evening as the best men’s singles skater in the world entered into his haunting routine, the music of the theme song from _Requiem for a Dream_ filling the rink auditorium.

Every movement, every turn of a wrist or sweep of a leg amplified the vision inspired by both music and man of The End.

Harry like the rest of the audience waited with baited breath as Viktor entered his first jump, a combo triple flip followed by his signature quad flip.

“Damn.”  His Dad breathed out next to him.  “Even watching him in person he _still_ makes that look effortless.”

Viktor leapt into his flying spin-Beillman combo, then melted into a spread eagle, using it as a set-up for his second quad of the program before he entered the second half, landing the quad lutz but stepping out for a deduction.

“Hmm.”  Harry’s Papa hummed under his breath as he knocked shoulders with his mate.  “Not so effortless after all.”

“Viktor’s style is more artistic with higher jumps than most.”  Harry explained quietly as Viktor flowed into his step sequence – lovely footwork, truly – and the second half of routine.  “He does his hardest jumps at the beginning, so he doesn’t get tired and mess them up later in the program.”

“Not like you then.”  Siri smirked at his older son before turning his eyes back to the ice in time to catch the last major element of the program, Viktor’s jump combination of a triple loop, double loop, triple axel.  The Animagus arched a brow.  “Smooth though.  He’s very smooth.”

The crowd agreed, leaping to their feet as Viktor ended his program, standing as if he was turning away from someone with one hand covering his face and the other extended behind him with his hand positioned as if he’d just released something from his hand, his legs spread to appear as if he was ready to run away from his pursuer.

Harry, Rome, and the other skaters joined in with the crowd’s applause and cheers, his Papa and Dad adding in some ear-piercing whistles while little Rome jumped up and with a slightly-exasperated Harry on his heels ran over to just next to the Kiss-and-Cry entrance to the ice, holding out a rose crown in dark red he must’ve bullied their Papa into buying for him.  Rome loved his brother, but there was no denying that after spending hours watching film of skaters with Harry while he prepared for his Senior debut, that he had his favorite.  With a sigh and a roll of his eyes at the glare from Yakov, Harry lifted Rome under his shoulders so his baby brother could hold out the crown and place it on a smiling Viktor’s head as he stopped and bent down a little to assist, flashing a grin at Harry before entering the Kiss-and-Cry while the other skater escorted his brother back to their seats.

Little did they know, that picture would soon eclipse Harry’s topless shot as the hot news on everyone’s tongues.

Especially when Viktor’s score came up flashing in the arena: 99.81.  His deduction for stepping out of his quad had put him just barely under Harry’s short program score.  For the first time in ages, Viktor was behind while heading into the free skate.

…

** The Moment on Everybody’s Lips at the Grand Prix Short Programs: **

** Viktor Nikiforov Comes in _Second_ to debut Senior Harry Evans! **

**The Men’s Singles skating world was rocked today at Sochi, when after scoring his personal best, Harry Evans, 18, a relative newcomer to the international level, took the lead after the short program.  Viktor Nikiforov, 24, skated a haunting rendition of his _Requiem for a Dream_ performance however a key deduction arising from a step-out on his quad lutz cost him the leader position.**

**However, the moment on everyone’s lips isn’t Viktor’s unusual flawed jump, but rather concerning what happened after, when Evans, chasing after who was later confirmed as his brother, Rome, 4, lifted the little boy carrying a dark-red rose crown up and helped his brother place it on Nikiforov’s silvery-blond head (pictures below).**

**Read the full story _here_.**

…


	3. Three

** Make Me Feel Alive **

_Author’s Note: There’s references in this chapter to some past relationships, as well as an answer to what-the-heck is going on with Harry’s current love life.  Don’t worry, the end game is Viktor/Harry…but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to stumble about a bit like the oblivious-but-loveable idiots they both can be before they get to that point._

**Chapter Three – Shatter Me**

Harry enjoyed the break between the short program and the free skate, even if he did spend it chasing Phichit around their hotel swearing vengeance rather than snuggled up with his Viktor in his hotel room.

It would’ve been a nice chance to de-stress for both of them, but he knew professional sports better than anyone and would never ask Viktor to skip out on the pre-match practices for him.

He’d been right, anyway, that the envelope had contained another offer from the Vultures’ owner and management to come and play for them – though they were interested in having him as a Chaser and back-up Seeker rather than a starting Seeker like most of the other teams who’d given him offers.  Several, like the Vultures, kept on sending them even after he made it clear he wasn’t going to consider anything until the summer of next year, but for the most part it wasn’t a huge problem.  And the ones who were being most insistent were only doing so because they had an “in” with him through his friends or former teammates from the Hufflepuff Quidditch team that he’d played first reserve Seeker for two years then starting Seeker for three, between the break in fourth year for the Tournament and Cedric deciding to take his seventh year off for NEWTs.

Cedric had made it onto the Magpies’ farm team without playing that last year anyway, so it hadn’t made much of a difference to the now-starting professional Seeker.

In fact, most of Harry’s friends from his Hogwarts days were either fellow ‘Puffs, the Terror Twins of Gryffindor (due to the Marauder connection mostly), or Quidditch players with the last taking his “break” from the British Wizarding World the hardest since they’d all been hoping he’d go straight to playing for Puddlemere or Montrose or even a foreign team like the Vultures.

When chasing after Phichit yelling threats while the little Thai terror cackled and took selfies – selfies that he could now tag Harry in thanks to the bet that has worked out 99% in his favor, with a mere 1% going to Harry, in Harry’s opinion at least, from the boost in popularity his new social media presence had garnered him – got old, Harry muttered one last dire threat to his friend and took off to do his _actual_ work-out down in the hotel’s gym and pool before sucking it up and calling his now-expected date for the GPF banquet after a bracing shower.

“’Lo.”  The voice was gravelly with sleep and strain, his friend wasn’t due in Sochi until tomorrow for the free skate and wouldn’t be flying out from Paris – where he had a show that would have been starting around the time Harry took the first place score in the short program – until later.  The two of them due to their being in the public eye had to use muggle-friendly transportation…even if they both did it via private train cars, planes, and hired cars than public people carriers, it was still a visible and _trackable_ by the press way to get between point A and point B.

“Hey, it’s me.”  Harry told him, keeping his voice pitched soothingly, well-aware that his friend wasn’t fond of loud or grating noise first-thing.  “Listen, I need a favor…”

“Why do I have a feeling this has to do with the topless photo of you that popped up on my feed last night and the bet surrounding it?”  Rather than irritated, the musician sounded amused.

“Well…”

“Just spill it, green-eyes.”

“Phichit – the Thai skater.”

“Your new friend, yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”  Harry scowled a bit, hip-deep in planning retribution for this whole mess.  And he had a feeling his friend would be more than willing to help Phichit along to his doom.  “Anyway he saw you at my hotel room in Paris and with the music connection and everything…”

“What’d he win?”  A dark brow rose as the singer sneered at the glowing numbers above his head that let him know the time with a flick of his wand.  Damn dopey Huff-n-Puff, he was halfway a Gryffindork with how he stumbled into things like this.  “He want tickets or an autograph or something?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s going to try for those too.”  Harry snorted.  “He wants you to be my plus-one for the post-Final banquet.”

“Hmm.”  A lithely muscled body flopped back onto crimson and black silk sheets, getting him a hiss of irritation from last night’s company.  Not that it mattered.  Witches like her were a dime-a-dozen, especially to someone like him.  “Me?  Go to one of those – in your words – hideously boring and stuffy affairs?”  He chuckled in his seductive way as the strain from the previous show cleared after a long drink from the decanter on his nightstand.  “I doubt they’ll let me through the doors love.”

“Please?”  Harry pouted into the phone, knowing that the musician would hear and note the change in tone as easily as Harry could spot a flawed patch of ice on a rink.  “For me?”

“You must be the only person I know who can both pout and flutter their lashes long-distance.”  The dark-haired singer sighed then agreed.  It wasn’t like he’d had plans for after Harry’s performance anyway, other than ravishing the raven-haired beauty, and since the whole thing resulted in a wank-worthy picture now gracing his phone background it was probably – maybe – worth it.

“Excellent.”  Harry beamed.

“You’re already planning payback for your little friend, aren’t you?”

“Who, me?”  Harry chuckled evilly.  “Of course I am.  Any interest in helping me?”  He dropped his voice into a husky tone that promised naughty delights.  “I’ll owe you one.”

“I’m listening…”

…

“Aww that was so _cute_ , Vitya.”  Mila teased her rink-mate all the way through the hotel after their group work-out down in the gym, Yuri and Yakov tailing after them in two varying shades of grumpy.  “Harry’s little brother just _loves_ you!  See!”  She shoved her phone which had the post-event interview with Harry Evans up and scrolled to where the interviewer had asked about the “ultimate big-brother” moment.

Yuri and Yakov snorted in near-unison before glaring darkly at each other, both of them pissed off only for differing reasons.

The young skater simply didn’t get the big deal, so a little kid did something cute, so what?!

Whereas Yakov had a whole ‘nother axe to grind with the situation.

“No, no.”  Mila scolded them, whipping around.  “It’s true.”  Snagging her phone back from Viktor who was looking at the picture of Harry lifting his brother to put the wreath on his head in befuddled bemusement to read out part of the article.  “When asked about the sure-to-be-iconic moment between the two brothers, Harry replied: ‘My little brother, Rome, has watched hours and hours of film with me ever since he was born as I worked at my home rink and compared my routines to those made famous in the past.  His favorite routine – and skater though hopefully after me – is Viktor’s Lilac Fairy.  He, like so many young people, adores Russia’s national treasure.  And being a good brother, I couldn’t do anything less than help him when he needed it.  Getting to do that will be one of Rome’s favorite memories I’m sure for many years to come.’  Aww…”  Mila cooed some more, nearly starry-eyed over the adorable pair of brothers.

“That’s enough, Mila.”  Yakov finally snapped as they made it to the suite he’d arranged for his team.  Yakov and Mila had private rooms while Viktor and Yuri were sharing, the rest of their rink-mates having not made the cut for the Grand Prix this year.  “I’ve heard all I can stand about Harry Evans!”

With that, Yakov stomped away over to his room, but not before bellowing for them to eat before heading to the rink to practice their free programs in an hour.

“Wow, what’s up with him?”  Mila asked, her phone dangling in her now-limp hand.

“Don’t know, don’t care.”  Yuri responded crankily.  “Now can we stop talking about that British idiot?  So he beat Viktor in the short program, so what?  That’s Vitya’s fault for stepping out of his jump, nothing else.”

“Thanks, kitten.”  Viktor rolled his eyes at the reminder.  It wasn’t like Yakov had been up his ass for the last day for the very same thing, along with all of the other nitpicky things he did “wrong” in his performance.  But somehow, he didn’t think Yakov’s problem was with him being beaten – however temporarily.  He’d never gotten this angry about it before.  No, Viktor would bet that it had to do more with _who_ beat him.  Though what Yakov had against Harry Evans, Viktor didn’t have the slightest idea and he was currently the coach’s longest-running skater.  “Good to know I have your support.”

“Pah.”  Yuri glared over at the older man from his bowl of borscht.  “You’ll win.  But now more of the fans are excited for the free skate because it’s not as guaranteed as it usually is.”  He sneered as Viktor and Mila grabbed their own food and sat down next to him.  “At least until next year when I come up as a Senior and kick your ass right off of the first place podium.”

Which if he managed it would make him the first skater to ever do so during his debut Senior season, something not even Vitya had managed taking a Silver his debut year at the Grand Prix – though to most skaters simply making the Grand Prix their first year would be amazing.

Neither Viktor Nikiforov nor Yuri Plisetsky could be lumped in with most other skaters however.

“You need to improve your footwork before you have a chance of that.”  Viktor told him calmly with an arch of a brow.  Yuri was good, ridiculously talented of that there was no doubt and an ever-evolving monster.  But he still lacked the discipline and technique that came with age.  He still thought everything was about landing the most quads.  Viktor tsked teasingly.  “Still too rough and sloppy.”

“He’s right, Yuratchka.”  Mila told him softly when Yuri just tossed his head and studiously ignored the veteran skater.  “Vitya doesn’t win because he has the most quads in his routine or by doing all his jumps in the second half.  If that was all it took, JJ Leroy would win every competition.”  She laughed lightly at the sneer that idea garnered from both males.

Viktor didn’t really have a problem with the narcissistic Canadian skater who only loved his girlfriend more than himself – but JJ _did_ have a problem with Viktor beating him, and showed it, making things often tense between the two top skaters.

Yuri just didn’t like people who were too cocky or too gushy – and JJ was both, about himself and his little girlfriend.

“Enough chatter!  Eat!”  Yakov told them as he stormed back out of his room and over to the kitchenette.  Loading up his own bowl he looked around at his trio of top skaters and announced: “I don’t want to hear anymore talk about that Evans at all.  But knowing you brats that’s too much to ask.  So instead, you’re all on blackout from social media and discussing Evans until after we leave for Moscow.”

“ _Yakov_!”  Came a trio of whines.

“Enough brats!  Eat!  We have programs to fix before you skate tomorrow!”

…

Waking up refreshed and feeling devious in preparation for the payback that was heading towards an unknowing Phichit like a runaway train, Harry easily worked through his morning warm-up work-out with an easy jog and swim to loosen and stretch his muscles, followed by a round of yoga before tucking into a high-protein high-energy breakfast of a yogurt parfait with a yogurt/soy/fruit protein smoothie to wash it down and half of a turkey/mushroom/tomato omelet as an afterthought, nothing heavy like the full-English breakfasts he’d grown up with.

With his genes and metabolism, plus being only eighteen and an athlete at that, he didn’t have to obsess – too much – over his diet as long as he stayed sensible.  But any day where he had a performance was one where he watched himself like a hawk and stayed away from the goodies until the banquet.  Honestly, after one hateful practice with his ballet instructor at eleven when she saw what a semester at Hogwarts had done to him, he swore off treacle tart and Honeydukes except as prizes for winning.

Answering his phone when it rang, he grinned at the confirmation that his friend had arrived and was currently being shown around the penthouse and getting it set up for his revenge on Phichit.

Confirming that a pass will be left for him with the concierge for the musician to pick up, they hung up until they’d see each other later before his program, Harry staying on his phone and flipping through the social media sites he’d set himself up with, grimacing at some of the over-the-top comments people made on his now-infamous photo…which true to Phichit’s prediction had in fact gotten over a million hits and thousands of likes, as had his profiles over all, with the selfie of him and Rome (and later the snap of him, Rome, and Viktor that was all over the news) quickly becoming just as popular with some fans.

Harry was no stranger to fangirls or fanboys – Creevey and the female Weasley had been particularly rabid while he was in school – but some of these new ones he’d gathered since joining the international skating world were down-right scary.

Though he had to admit that none of his were as bad as the ones who were all googley-eyed over the teenager from Russia that would be moving to the Senior’s division next season.  Yuri Plisetsky was set to take his third consecutive Junior gold at the Final.  And his fangirls, dubbed Yuri’s Angels, were nothing short of terrifying.

And apparently very thick-skinned considering some of the abuse the bad-tempered teen had shouted at them during the Grand Prix Final that Harry had overheard.

Still, at least with groupies and fangirls/boys in the muggle world, Harry didn’t have to deal with the very-real and very-icky threat of love potions and love potion poisoning like what had happened with him (receiving tainted chocolates) in his fifth year with his friend Ernie getting poisoned from eating the chocolates that Harry had tossed aside well-after the expiration on the love potion.

Romilda Vane was _way_ scarier at fourteen than any of these muggle girls with a crush on the Russian ice kitten, that was for sure.

And honestly, once his fathers found out, she was lucky to get out of that situation with mere expulsion, since they were pushing for a jail sentence as not only was he famous but he was the Heir to a Lordship, which made dosing him with love potions a much stiffer crime than if she’d tried it on someone outside the nobility.

Checking the time after mocking Phichit relentlessly in a brief Twitter battle – Harry was finally getting a handle on this social media thing – Harry rose and started gathering his thing for the short trip to the arena.  He may be going last, but he still had to be there at the same time as the others for the warm-ups.  Harry shot a text to his friend to let him know that he was on his way out in case he was planning on popping by before seeing him at the rink, then was out the door and on his way to the final event of the Grand Prix.

Harry mercifully slipped through the crowded arena with little problem, with his hair back and a hoodie blocking most of his head and face he blended in easily with the rest of the bundled up people who were braving Russia in January for the Grand Prix Final.

He scored the locker rooms all to himself, since he didn’t have to stop to greet fans or sign autographs or settle in his family, he was able to strip down easily and slip into his costume, simply leaving off the make-up and hair this time since he was skating last and could fiddle with it after the warm-up.

Instead of his leather pants, this time his top went on first.  It was a sneaky use of magic – and he allowed himself magic for readying his appearance and his costume during competition – that made his leather pants so flexible and comfortable and his other costume elements breathable.  But it was worth it and didn’t give him that much of an edge over someone _non_ -magical…it really just meant he had to spend less money on his costumes than they did for the same level of movement and comfort.  His top had to go on first this time because it was made almost completely of black illusion mesh that clearly showed his golden skin through it, barely making it slide through the regulations of the ISU, and it wasn’t just a top but a leotard fashioned with long-sleeves and a boxer-brief bottom that would keep the light black gauzy mesh from flying _every-fucking-where_ during his routine.  He’d learned that the hard way with his original top for this routine when he’d gotten it back from the tailor, requiring a quick redesign before the Scottish Regional Qualifier.

Countries were free to schedule their qualifying and National events whenever they pleased.  Britain was one of the few who had almost all of their events, including their National Championship, at the beginning of the international skating season.  Which was nice as it allowed their top skaters to focus internationally later in the season and gave them more time between major events like the Grand Prix Final and the European Championships.  But it also was bad in that it allowed them less time to perfect their routines each season-break before debuting them in the Fall.

Over the leotard went black leather pants in his trademark style that were identical to his other pants except in color and decoration, this pair being inky black with a scattering of embellishments that matched the ones on his black skate boots and the small amount on his top in a starburst design on his left side and ribs, all of which were fashioned from white or green glittery crystals to look like broken or shattered glass.  For the performance he would smoke out his eyes and tie his hair back in an assortment of small wild braids via spell – in the bathroom when no one was watching of course.

A soft whistle from behind him as he stood by the edge of the rink, watching the Senior Women’s free skate had him turning his head to look back over his shoulder.  He’d put his leather jacket with the Union Jack back on once he’d gotten dressed and out of the locker room, and was just waiting to put on his skates once the women’s programs finished and the ice was prepped before starting his warm-up.  Harry had already checked the Junior division scores, and was less-than-shocked that the Russian kitten – or “Ice Tiger” as the punk preferred to be called – had taken the gold and without adding in any quads which Yakov Feltsman his coach had banned him from performing while he was still a Junior.  Yuri was shaping up to be one of the late bloomers in skating, not having had any significant growth spurts or issues with puberty yet at just-turned-fifteen.  Which was a mixed blessing for the kid, since that gave him an opportunity to get in a season or two before nature fucks him over, but it also means that unless Yakov convinces him to sit out some events like he had Viktor when he went through that phase Yuri could seriously strain or injure his growing muscles and tendons.  A skater usually managed his performance elements fine during growth spurts but often had to retrain their jumps as they went, which if allowed to overwork themselves could – and did – result in career-ending injuries.

Harry cocked his head and grinned at the man wearing the all-access pass Harry had left for him before turning around completely and taking the extended hand, lifting it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to smooth, pampered skin as their eyes watched each other heatedly, both of them pretending not to notice the cameras that were snapping furiously at the sight.

After all, it wasn’t every day that an internationally-renowned rockstar like Lorcan d’Eath showed up at the figure skating Grand Prix – let alone be greeted so… _warmly_ by one of the competitors…and a male competitor at that.

“Lorcan, love.”  Harry purred, eyes raking up and down the silk-clad half-vampire who’d dressed all in black and green to match Harry, familiar with his costume from seeing it during full-rehearsals of his free skate program.  This was the first time Lorcan had openly attended one of his competitions, usually watching from home.  Though Harry had given him a performance at his request.  Which was only right, after all, Lorcan had done the arrangement for both of his program music choices.  “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

“ _Mon cher_.”  The half-French, part-English, part-Hungarian, half-wizard, half-vampire purred in his famous sultry bari-tenor.  “ _Paris_ has been empty without you.”

“Somehow I doubt your many conquests would agree.”  Harry noted with a soft laugh, letting go of Lorcan’s hand and letting it fall softly between them as the dark, saturnine predator with his startling burgundy eyes moved to walk at his side while Harry showed him to the same viewing area where his family and Viktor had sat just days previously.

Lorcan, as a damphir or half-vampire, wasn’t Remus’s favorite person to say the least, his inner wolf wanting the creature as far from his cub as possible.

As a result, Harry could only ever arrange for Lorcan, his sometimes-when-we’re-free-and-in-the-mood lover, to visit when Remus wouldn’t be there supporting him.

A major hassle when it came to doing the arrangements and recordings for Harry’s musical compositions for his routines, which Lorcan had utterly _demanded_ to take over after finding out about Harry’s secret vocation…and one of the main reasons Harry finally moved out of Castle Black and into the penthouse his dad had spoiled him with for his graduation.

No matter how long they were mated, Remus was still helpless when it came to trying to curb his husband’s spending habits.

And apparently getting a flat in London – or whatever other city tickled their fancy – was a traditional graduation gift for a Black male.

Though in Sirius’s case it had been his Uncle Alphard who had taken up the charge for Sirius, as by that point neither son nor father were speaking to each other.

Harry’s – partly due to Sirius’s much-deeper pockets than his uncle, and partly due to pure personality – was much _grander_ than Sirius’s had been, and the main reason he’d been reluctant to move in.  Three stories of prime real estate in London, it had previously been the home of a retired Olympic swimmer – complete with pool which had required significant reinforcement and took up the top floor of the penthouse and had a retractable roof.  Sirius – Mr. Spend Thrift – had converted the pool area into a full Olympic-scale ice-rink, complete with pipes running through the rink to supply the mechanical freezing process required for use year-round, giving Harry his own practice rink without ever having to leave his penthouse and ended up being the major reason he moved other than better access to Lorcan and Viktor, as well as dance, gymnastics, and yoga studios which he continued to practice at least weekly to keep in shape.

His penthouse was muggle-friendly due to needing to be able to host a coach or choreographer – if he ever hired one of either – or his muggle skating friends, but Remus had insisted on Harry accepting the help of a house-elf to take care of the place when he was gone as well as keep him fed and watered when he was home.  Rinky – named by Harry when he was about six – had been ecstatic to be asked and lived at the Black townhouse, popping between the two locations as required.  Remus and Sirius may not always understand Harry’s vocation, but they did accept it and support him however they could.

Even if it meant through ostentatious displays of wealth.

“I see you already found the seats before coming to look for me.”  Harry commented with a smirk as he saw Lorcan’s assistant Adrian – who had been a few years ahead of Harry at school – had already staked out seats for the superstar with comfortable cushions on the hard arena seats and a plush blanket ready and waiting for its famous owner to curl up in it.

“But of course, _mon cher_.”  Lorcan smirked right back, his far more devilish than Harry’s could ever hope to be – outside of Harry in a snit anyway.  “That way you know right where to look when you greet the audience.”

Rolling his eyes discretely, Harry said hello to Adrian as the podium from the women was cleared and the ice cleaning machine started up.  There wasn’t much time left before he’d have to go warm up and get his head in the game instead of focusing on Lorcan.

“Behave.”  He ordered the sultry damphir warningly before exchanging cheek-kisses much like he had with Viktor a few days before.  “I have to put my skates on and warm up.  Adrian, please try to keep him from seducing half the audience – and the other skaters – before the programs even start if you would?”

“I’ll try Harry.”  Adrian Pucey laughed, his bright blue eyes flashing.  “But I make no promises on that score.  You know how he is.”

“To my own dismay…”  He twitted the damphir one last time before making his way easily through the crowd and slipping on his skates, lacing them up with familiar and sure movements before shucking his jacket and leaving it with his other things in the staging area.  He was in first place, now he just had to _stay_ there.

…

“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.”  Chris panted, eyes wide and pupils blown as he stared at the scene playing out over at the “family” seats for the skaters and their chosen people.

“What?”  Viktor looked up from lacing his skates with a frown.  He hadn’t seen that intriguing Harry anywhere and it was driving him crazy when all he needed right now was to focus.

“I think he’s panting about _that_.”  Phichit laughed, pointing over Viktor’s shoulder, causing the Russian to turn his head and blink at the sight.  “That’s…”

“ _Lorcan d’Eath_!”  Chris squealed quietly, cognizant of the cameras and fans watching them at all times once they hit the staging area.  “One of the hottest superstars in the world and he’s _all over_ our little English muffin!”

Yes, Viktor noticed with a scowl, he was.  Wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders, leaning in a bit too close, then those cheek kisses…they _looked_ on the surface to be friendly enough.  But that stare in those oddly-colored eyes was _anything_ but friendly.

“Didn’t he arrange both of Evans’s songs?”  JJ asked after confirming at it was d’Eath.  He didn’t see the big deal, the man’s music wasn’t his style.  “And like, record the short program piece?  That’s what the stat sheets say right?”

“Mhmm.”  Phichit hummed, lacing up his own skates and stretching a bit to make sure they were fitting right.  “They’re friends.”  If one _got busy_ with their friends on a semi-regular basis, but that wasn’t his business and he wasn’t going to put his friend Harry on blast like that.  Not that either of the men in question were being all that discrete, which wasn’t necessarily smart in an extremely unfriendly-to-anything-but-hetero country like Russia who only made an exception for the openly-bi Viktor because the man was a skating god.

“Looks like more than friends to me.”  Viktor muttered to himself, somewhat angry at himself for being angry in the first place.  If Evans was happy or in a relationship or whatever, that was _his_ business and Viktor had no say in things, having barely met the man.  At the moment anyway.

“Well.”  Phichit fessed up.  “Lorcan is who I wanted Harry to bring to the banquet as his plus-one.  So it probably has to do with that.”

“I don’t care what _anyone_ has to say about it.”  Chris retorted with a flamboyant head toss.  “I just found the inspiration for my next free skate routine.”

Viktor grimaced up at his friend.  “I did _not_ need to know that.”

“I don’t think any of us needed to know what goes through his head when he pulls a _Giacometti_ ,” Micky said in an aside to JJ as they all went out to the ice for their warm-up, Harry joining them.

…

Harry grimaced with empathy as Chris flutzed his last quad, knowing that with his performance in the short program, that was likely the end of his chances of making the podium this year – an assumption that was proven right as Chris gave a brave smile to the crowd from the Kiss-and-Cry after the score announcement put him in last place after JJ and Micky who were now in first and second with Chris in last place.  Harry, Phichit, and Viktor would have to make some mistakes and get merely-okay scores if any of the bottom three wanted to podium this year.  Chris in particular had seemed off his game, but no matter as he would still at the end be ranked #6 internationally for the men’s single senior division, and that was no small thing.

The British skater laughed and cheered and clapped along with the rest of the crowd as he kept himself warm and limber during Phichit’s fun and energetic free skate with its cheery, happy music, much like the skater himself.  Phichit had added swapped out a triple in his first half for a quad – which he’d done well but not perfectly – to up his number of the difficult jumps to three, making him a bit more competitive against Viktor, who always had impressive performance scores, and JJ and Harry who had the highest difficulty rating for their technical scores, each of the two skaters utilizing four quads in their programs, the most any skater has ever successfully landed in competition.  Harry whistled loud and proud when Phichit finished his program after landing all of his jumps – even if they weren’t perfect – and beating his own best for a free skate with a 190.31, putting him firmly into first with only Harry and Viktor to go.  Viktor would need at least a 185.34 to overtake Phichit, a score that was well within Viktor’s range with his current free skate consistently scoring in the 190’s and 200 range.

Harry hoped that Viktor didn’t score over 200 this time – or even worse break his own world record – since that would put that much more pressure on Harry to win and break his personal best – by at least several points depending on how well Viktor scored.

The green-eyed man narrowed his eyes as he watched Viktor take his place on center ice, as he continued to stretch.  Viktor seemed different, more motivated this time versus during his short program.  He had a whole different attitude, as if something had lit a fire in him.

Little did Harry know, that seeing him with Lorcan had been the thing that lit said fire while it had been seeing and meeting Harry in the first place that had led to his earlier distraction and the resulting mistakes Yakov had ripped into him for.

Viktor was determined to have Harry’s eyes on him, and him alone.

Which for a champion skater, created one hell of an incentive to give the performance his best.

And Viktor’s best was exceptional.

Phichit wasn’t the only one who had switched jumps, Viktor replacing a triple in the second half with a quad – something he hardly ever did.  But then…he _really_ wanted this gold.  Wanted Harry to look up at _him_ on the podium the way he’d looked at that stupid singer with his stupid eyes.

Viktor wouldn’t admit to being a little bit infatuated with the younger man…but he would freely admit to being more than a little bit in lust with him.

Harry watched with no-little sense of awe – as he always did – as Viktor brought the heartbreaking music written by a genius to life.  It was a funeral piece, and Viktor conveyed that with his low spins and elegant steps, but there was also a new sense to the piece, one that hadn’t been there before, that Viktor was almost defying death and decay.  His jumps were higher than ever, and without the little inconsistencies, while his lines were crisp and his landings cleaner than in his short program.  Shaking his head, Harry smiled as snapped a picture of Viktor as he spun in mid-air during the last quad near the end of his program.  Loading it quickly he gave it a simple caption that would end up making a headline: “Someone woke up the sleeping Prince” and loaded it to his social media before turning off his phone and taking out his earplugs in preparation for his own free skate.

…

“Vitya!”  Mila’s ecstatic voice called out from the viewing area, where she and Chris had somehow wrangled the places on either side of Harry’s _Friend_.  “Over here!  You have to watch!  Ignore the reporters for once!”

Yakov narrowed his eyes at the cozy little party, not liking this closeness his team seemed to be cultivating around Evans and his people.

“Come on, old man.”  Yuri snapped from the back row.  “I saved you a seat, asshole.”

And that was pretty much that, the two older Russian men joining the irritating creature as Harry came out onto the ice.

“Did you really arrange this piece too?”  Chris asked Lorcan with stars in his eyes much to the amusement of his boyfriend Theo, who didn’t mind his lover’s gushing over the superstar one iota.  He’d done the same – though internally – after all.

“There wasn’t much to arrange.”  Lorcan admitted with a chuckle as his eyes ate up the sight of Harry in his favorite place in the world – center ice.  “Just needed shortened by about fifteen seconds, nothing noticeable and easily trimmed from the beginning prior to the mechanical click at the start to the first verse.  Made it easy for me.  Plus, this is more my style anyway than his short piece.  But it was his choice, whatever _mon cher_ wanted, you know?”

“Quiet, idiot.”  Yuri snapped, kicking at the back of Lorcan’s seat to gasps of shocked dismay from both Mila and Chris – and an approving nod from Viktor.  “Your _darling_ is starting.”

And he was, music Viktor didn’t recognize but that he later would look up and watch the music video for starting soft and low like a child’s music box before all-but-pouring from the speakers: _Shatter Me,_ by Lindsey Stirling and vocals performed by Lzzy Hale.

Then, mere moments into the routine, Viktor learned _exactly_ what Chris had meant by calling Harry an athletic skater as the first chorus sped up the beat and he took to the air for his first jumps, a triple axel triple loop combination and from there seemed to never come down except for when the music – and the program requirements – demanded it.

_Shatter me!_

_Somebody make me feel alive_

_And shatter me!_

The second verse began, _if only the clockworks could speak, I wouldn’t feel so alone…_ , Harry going into his spin combo then hydroblading on the next lines _, we burn every magnet and spring and spiral into the unknown…_ , spiraling with the music before leaping back into the air with the chorus, a second triple axel.

_Somebody shine a light_

_I'm frozen by the fear in me_

_Somebody make me feel alive_

_And shatter me_

_So cut me from the line_

_Dizzy, spinning endlessly_

_Somebody make me feel alive_

_And shatter me!_

The beat drops highlighted Harry’s step sequences and blade-work, and coming out of it Harry’s athleticism kept up with the fast-paced violin and dubstep elements, leaping into his first of two jump combos that he’d moved to the second half for the Grand Prix – upping the difficulty score.

_If I break the glass, then I'll have to fly_

_There's no one to catch me if I take a dive…_

And Harry could certainly fly, proving it with a quad toe loop/triple loop/quad lutz, but needing a hand on the ice to steady him after the lutz.  He skated with the music, his moves more aggressive than artistic and likely costing him performance points if Viktor knew the judges, then was up into a Russian split before spiraling and into the last set of jumps, another combination: quad salchow to quad loop, managing to land both.  He’d done it, pushing two combos and four quads all to the second half of his program, but it didn’t leave him much time to finish it out with how high his jumps were and the distance they covered, Harry making it with a couple of movements to finish back in the center with his feet and hands flung wide and to the back with his head lowered at the last cry of _Shatter Me!_ As the music faded.

Leaning forward, Viktor murmured to Chris: _“I see what you mean_ t.”

“That was even more in-your-face than Paris.”  Chris replied as the others clapped and cheered, Lorcan rising to his feet and throwing a crown of black roses right at Harry’s feet before moving to the Kiss-and-Cry, who smirked over in their direction before smoothly scooping it and another toy – this time a black dog – up for Rome, placing the crown onto his head with flair and a wink at the musician.  “The judges won’t like it.”

“No, they won’t, which is a shame.”  JJ commented from behind them – actually sounding pleasant for once.  JJ should know, since he was another skater that had issues with his routines being considered too athletic and jump-heavy.  “They’ll hit him in performance since they can’t really mark him down too much in technical.  He’ll take the silver – but it won’t break the 200 he needs for the gold.”

…

Harry greeted Lorcan at the Kiss-and-Cry with a smacking kiss to the cheek as the other man gave him a crushing hug.

“You were fantastic _mon cher!_ ”  Lorcan clamored him.  “Even the other skaters thought so.”

“Fantastic or not.”  Harry whispered back as they moved over towards the bench to wait for the scores that would seal this year’s Grand Prix finals.  He nodded his head towards the clearly arguing judges.  “That doesn’t look like all of them agree.”

“Pah, judges.”  Lorcan gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes.  Tapping his finger on the stuffed toy he asked, “That for the little wolf?”

“Mhmm.”  Harry hummed in agreement.  “He loves them, has a collection going for every stuffy I bring him from my competitions.  He even makes little collars for the ones where I medal.”

“Stop.”  Lorcan grimaced a bit.  “You’re killing me with the sugar.  How long until I can peel you out of that very _inspiring_ costume?”

“We have the banquet.”  Harry reminded him with an amused glance.

“I was promised leather.”

“ _I_ never promised it would be my costume.  I still need this for the rest of the season, you insatiable beast.”  He hushed himself as the scoreboard finally blanked.

As the sign lit up he smiled and clapped – though not as brightly or as loudly as he probably should have for a new personal best.

JJ – though Harry had no idea of the conversation, at least not yet – had been right.

The judges had knocked down his score for his performance.

It was indeed enough to take the silver and beat his personal best at 199.53, a mere 0.8 points lower than the 200.33 he’d have needed to take gold after Viktor’s amazing free skate and his own high short program.

“What?”  Lorcan frowned as he noted the happy-but-not look on his friend’s face, then the leader board changed as the crowd was whipped into a fever-pitch either mad about Harry’s loss or ecstatic over Viktor’s win.  “But your routine…”

“Wasn’t a normal routine.”  Harry explained with a sigh as he tugged Lorcan away from the Kiss-and-Cry – and the press – moving instead to wait at the staging area for the podium and the medal presentation.  “I tied Viktor’s Senior debut by medaling silver, but if I’d have won I’d have surpassed him…and Viktor Nikiforov is the judges’ darling.  Not only because he’s an amazing skater, but also because he’s pretty much the ideal image of a male figure skater.  He’s handsome, lithe, and artistic while still making impressive jumps and complex routines.”  He gave Lorcan a rueful smile.  “They don’t call him the Russian Prince for nothing, _ma douce.”_   Harry shook it off, handing over Rome’s stuffy and his jacket but keeping his rose crown with a smile as he was summoned back to the ice along with Viktor and Phichit.  “We can talk more about it later, ok?  I have a second-best medal to go accept.”

…

** Shattered by Tradition? **

**Today at the Men’s Singles Senior Division Grand Prix finals, up-and-coming debut skater Harry Evans, 18, of Britain, gave an amazing performance to the roars and cheers of a packed house, the perfect follow-up, or so it seemed, to his first-ranked short program two days ago.**

**However, when the scores came in, a clearly nervous and excited Evans, pictured _left_ , with his friend and possible romantic partner, superstar Lorcan d’Eath, was dealt a crushing blow as while his technical score received the highest marks of any of his division despite a flawed quad lutz, he’d been marked down sharply for his performance.**

**Why, you may ask?**

**Opinions are divided.**

**One skater, who asked to remain anonymous, cited Evans’s musical selection of _Shatter Me_ by Lindsey Stirling with vocals performed by Lzzy Hale, the lead singer of Halestorm as a probable cause.**

**“Yeah, they’ve changed the rules and we can pick songs with vocals now.”  The skater commented, referring to the decision by the ISU to lift the ban on vocals during the musical selections for competitions.  “But a lot of us have noticed that if we actually _choose_** **songs with vocals – and not traditional ones like opera – that we’ll consistently get a lower score, deserved or not, than if we skated the same routine to an instrumental track.”**

**While perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, the relatively new rule allowing vocals has spawned some stunning routines – including Evans’s – which received less-than-stunning marks from the judges across the board affecting skaters at all levels from all countries.**

**Still others pointed to Evans’s stylistic choices as the culprit.  Lauded for his athletic ability and stamina, Evans was only one of two skaters to include four quad jumps in his free skate routine, and the only skater to push them to combinations in the second half of the routine.  One skater was overheard calling Evans’s skating “aggressive and in-your-face.”**

**Another worried that this departure wouldn’t go over well with the judges, many of whom have been outspoken over restricting the number of tano-style jumps and quads allowed in programs as they believed those types of elements take away from the “art” of the sport, bringing to mind parallels between the former women’s skater from France who faced wide-spread criticism from judges on the international stage for her tendency to skate routines that were more athletic than feminine, including performing illegal tricks and moves during international competitions.  Some fans fear that Evans may become another skater that undergoes similar bias due to his skating style, however as he currently has never used an illegal move in competition, there’s no evidence to support such a fear.**

**Many fans were happy about the fifth consecutive gold medal at the Grand Prix for elite skater Viktor Nikiforov, but some were left with a bad taste in their mouths over the seeming bias against a top skater who gave the performance many say was the best so far this season – only for his hopes of gold to lay shattered at his feet, as Harry Evans bravely stepped onto the podium and waved at the crowd to accept his silver medal – with only the faintest of hint of his trademark grin to be seen.**

**This has been a report by Connie Chen, Sky Sports 1, London**

…

 _Author’s Note 2:_ “Pulling a Giacometti” is a play on Christophe Giacometti’s habit – as seen in canon – of skating while aroused, at times to the point of orgasm.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day to my lovely and darling readers! This chapter doesn't have much in the way of fluff, but there's definite progression :)

** Make Me Feel Alive **

_Author’s Note: A character here is borrowed from the Center Stage set of films.  I don’t own him in anyway (though I’d like to…) and this is the only chapter where he shows up and has presence though he may be mentioned or running around in the background in later chapters._

_Also, minor warning for some drama/angst._

**Chapter Four – Sweet, Sweet Revenge**

“Harry, _mon cher_ , have you seen this?”  Lorcan called out to his sometimes-lover who was showering in the penthouse bathroom.  Harry’s house elf had dropped off his outfit for the banquet which was due to start in about half-an-hour while they were gone at the arena, including setting up the rest of the luxury hotel suite for Harry’s revenge plot.

Personally, Lorcan was just glad that the banquet was several hours after the end of the Final, giving Harry time to work out some of his lingering…aggression with him in the bedroom…and the kitchenette…and against the suite door when they first arrived.

A Pepper-Up for Harry and a goblet of blood-wine for Lorcan later and Lorcan was ready and waiting on the wizard to finish his toilette so they could make their way down to the banquet hall on the first floor of the hotel, thereby paying up on Harry’s losing bet with his friend Phichit.

“Seen what?”  Harry called back as he tried out different hairstyles to go with the black Armani suit with the emerald silk shirt that Rinky had dropped off.  The elf had sent a tie as well but there was no way he was going to deign to wear it outside of an actual black or white tie event, a wedding or a funeral.

“Early news reports on the medal results.”  Lorcan told him as he sauntered into the bathroom, leaning one shoulder against the wall by the floor-to-ceiling mirror that he had _plans_ for much later tonight…or maybe early tomorrow morning before they both left for Paris and London respectively.  He knew there was no point to trying to convince Harry to come with him after his disappointment in Russia, the green-eyed vixen was going to be rehearsing and practicing like a demon until the next competition he was signed up for – a cup in Dublin – and then the next major competition – the European Cup in six weeks, taking place this year in Prague in mid-March.  “Some of the reporters must’ve written and uploaded them straight from the arena, maybe even while they were setting up the podium for the medal ceremony.”

“What’s the damage?”  Harry asked with a wry smile as he finally gave in and settled for a “just-shagged” styled look for his hair that was a more intentional version of what his hair looked like when it was shorter than hitting the tops of his shoulders.  “Should I go into hiding in the Amazon for letting down my fans?”

“Actually.”  Lorcan corrected him, handing over his phone since Harry’s was probably still in his bag or jacket – both of which had been summarily dropped when Lorcan had pinned him to the penthouse door.  “They’re in your corner, especially this one writer from London, she seems to be leading the charge with your fans picking up torches and pitchforks along the way with #ShatterSkatingBias trending with over ten thousand tags and rising.”

Harry quickly read through the article, his brows shooting up to his hairline as he read the nearly-scathing commentary of the judge’s decision.

“Those quotes I’m pretty sure are from your friends – well.”  He corrected himself, “ – friendly competitors at least.  Even the cocky Canadian was commenting along those lines from what I heard before going to meet you.  They were already predicting the judges’ reaction to your routine…and rather accurately as it turns out…”  He cut himself off as he saw the thunderous look crossing Harry’s handsome face.  “What’s wrong?”  He asked as the wizard stormed out of the dressing area in his sock feet, leaving his suit jacket and shoes behind and his shirt only half-buttoned as he made for the suite’s foyer.

“Did you get to the comments?”  Harry responded as he searched through his bag for his own phone, ready to type out a reply before Lorcan snatched the phone from his hand.  _“Hey!”_

“Rule One of Social Media.”  Lorcan told him with a serious expression, then shook his head and corrected himself.  “No, Rule Two, Rule One is never let anyone – including yourself – post an indecent picture of you or on your account.”

“Learned that the hard way did we?”  Harry smirked, clearly remembering a rant about a groupie who’d snapped a pic of Little-Lorcan and posted it all over her accounts until Lorcan’s lawyers filed an injunction and had her pull it down – too late however, as it was _still_ floating around the internet.

“Shut it, I’m trying to help you here.”  Lorcan told him with a light tap to the back of Harry’s head with the phone still captive in his hand, Lorcan’s sitting safely on the side table.  “Rule Two of Social Media: Don’t ever post, tweet, or otherwise respond while angry or upset.  Happy, calm, indifferent – those are all fine.  But if your emotions are all over the place, you could end up putting something out there that won’t ever go away and could cost you your fan base.  So.”  Lorcan held the Pixel up next to his face before handing it over.  “Can you be calm about this now?  Explain to me what I missed?”

“They’re going after the judges – okay fine.”  Harry shrugged.  “Fans always to that, though this time it’s a little worse than normal with the sports reporters fanning the flames.  But they’re _also_ trying to vilify Nikiforov, taking pot-shots at his age, saying that he’s washed-up or should retire.”  Harry shifted, his eyes narrowing angrily as he remembered some of the more inflammatory statements his fans were making.  He was sure some of it was just internet trolls trying to shit-start, but it still had to be hurtful.  “That I’m not okay with.  I don’t need or want to tear someone else down to raise myself up.”

And he certainly didn’t need anyone doing it on his behalf.

“Aww.”  Lorcan cooed, only a bit mockingly.  “There the Hufflepuff goes being all cute and thoughtful of others.”

Harry growled at the blood-sucking prat, then stomped over to the stocked desk in the bedroom and sat.

“What’re you doing now?”

“Writing out a statement.”  Harry told him as he worked on setting his thoughts to paper.  “Then I’m going to release it on my social media accounts.  And if Adrian would, I’d like it if he’d forward it to this reporter,” he glanced at the name on the piece.  “Connie Chen with Sky Sports One.”

“Sure.”  Lorcan shrugged.  It wasn’t like his assistant had a whole lot to do with Lorcan being mostly in the studio until summer when his next big tour kicks off.  He was only doing local – or local _ish_ – shows around Western Europe when he wanted until then.  “Just leave it on the counter in the kitchenette, I’ll text Adrian and have him come pick it up.”

“Mkay, thanks, Lo’.”

…

You could hear the squeals from Phichit and Mila from two floors away as Harry walked in to the banquet in Armani with Lorcan – the damphir singer in his trademark black with a purple silk shirt and pocket square – wearing Cifonelli on his arm.

The two males were almost identical in height at 6’1” and 6’2” (Harry and Lorcan respectively) but Lorcan was slim and lithe while Harry was muscled.  If you asked someone who didn’t recognize either man to pick out the figure skater, they’d probably choose Lorcan over his date nine times out of ten.  They made a handsome couple for a pair of people who were adamantly _not_ a couple.

Though try and tell that to their fans, the hashtags #LorRy and #HarCan trending right alongside #ShatterSkatingBias thanks to the articles pouring onto the internet from the Final.

Lorcan would probably be seen within days taking home some hot young twink or tart from one of the Paris clubs he frequents, squashing the rumors until someone saw him at another of Harry’s events and the speculation reignited, but for the moment neither of them was worried about that as Lorcan allowed himself to be dragged off by his two admirers, setting up Phichit for Harry’s revenge.

“This is rather…”  Lorcan commented idly after he’d taken photos with the people who’d asked after spotting Phichit shamelessly monopolizing him away from his date, Harry watching with patent amusement from his spot staking out a stool at the open bar, making officials and would-be sponsors come to him.

“Dull?”  Christophe suggested with a pout as he draped himself over the rockstar while his Theo snapped a picture of the two, unknowingly playing into the dhampir’s mission.

Harry had promised Lorcan all kinds of naughty goodness for helping him, and Lorcan had every intention of collecting…which meant making sure his friend got the blackmail material on Phichit he was after.

“Very.”  Lorcan agreed as the dj put on yet _another_ lackluster performance of a classical masterpiece.  It really should be against the law to slaughter priceless gems with poor playing – let alone recording the travesties!  “I thought Harry had been exaggerating when he complained about losing his bet and having to come…”  Lorcan shook his head ruefully.  “But considering the number of these types of things he’s gone to over the years, I should have trusted him.”

“Yes, well.”  Chris tossed back his flute of champagne with flair.  “What can you do?  The sponsors insist on these little meet-and-greets while the judges and coaches are a sure safeguard against bad behavior.”

“What?”  Lorcan arched a brow, knowing that the conversation between them had garnered the interest of several of the other senior skaters – and more than one of the juniors though with what was planned, only the seniors were his targets.  “None of you have ever thrown an after party?”

“Oh, da.”  Mila rushed to say.  “But usually the best ones are at the Athletes village at the Olympics.  With these hotels – and most of us sharing – there’s just no room to really have one and not be plastered all over the papers in the morning.”

“She’s right.”  Phichit commented, looking up from flipping through his selfies with Lorcan.  “None of us mind a little publicity from going to a club or a party, but we all have images to protect to keep our fans and sponsors.  Not everyone’s like Viktor and Harry where they don’t have to worry about it.”

“What do you mean?”  Chris asked zeroing in on the little Thai skater.  “I know there’s nothing Viktor could do to lose his fanbase and he’s wealthy enough from prize money, sponsorships, and endorsements from over fourteen years of professional competition as he moved through the divisions, but Harry just debuted on the international level.  There’s no way he could afford to lose whatever sponsors he has.”

“Harry doesn’t _have_ sponsors.”  Phichit corrected the Swiss man with a quick frown.  “Hadn’t you noticed?  There’s no one he has to worry about losing – other than his fans – and since he’s a bit of a rebel anyway, getting caught at a wild party isn’t the sort of thing that would be that big of a deal for him.”

“Speaking of which.”  Lorcan interjected before they could fixate on the subject of Harry’s apparent – if one looked closely at his situation – wealth.  “After party?  We have the penthouse and this,” he grimaced waving a hand.  “Barely counts as celebratory.  You’re the top skaters in the world, and still young.  Live a little.”  He pretended to think a moment.  “Just the seniors though.  I don’t want to get in trouble with parents because their darlings got in over their heads.”

“It would be a nice change of pace.”  Mila said slowly.  “But Yakov would never allow it.”

“Yakov doesn’t have to know.”  A silently watching Yuri commented from the dark corner near them where he’d been hiding from said coach who kept trying to force him to interact with sponsors and old people.  “I won’t tell the old man…as long as I get to get away from these old hags and their pinching hands.”

“Deal!”  Mila agreed with another squeal, darting off to start spreading the word to the other senior skaters, most of whom were at the banquet this year from all three divisions: Men’s, Women’s, and Pairs.

“That hag is going to rupture my eardrums one day.”  Yuri complained in Russian to himself, slinking back into the shadows now that he’d found out what the others were conspiring about.  Something smelled _off_ to Yuri.  It didn’t seem the style for a superstar like that asshole to just offer an afterparty out of the blue, and he’d never heard of Evans throwing one – or even really socializing that much with other skaters beyond the Thai midget – either.  Something was going on and Yuri was _going_ to be there…if only to take embarrassing photos and mock Mila relentlessly with them once they go back to Moscow.  “Those idiots are planning an afterparty.”  He announced quietly to Vitya as he made his way to his older rink-mate’s side.

“Which idiots, kitten?”  Viktor asked amused.  “You use that term so indiscriminately…”

“Nyet, I do not.”  Yuri scowled deeper – if that was even possible.  “Mila and your grabby Swiss friend with the stupid hair and Mr. Superstar.”

“Oh?”  Viktor asked with interest that he tried – and failed – to hide behind his normal polite public mask.  “Then I guess everyone will be going?”

“Hn.”  Yuri sneered.  “You’re so transparent I could cry it’s so pathetic – if I knew how to cry.  All the seniors, and myself of course.  They’re planning on hiding it from the others and the coaches, so after the banquet lets out.  Then you can drool over that stupid Brit up close instead of perving on him from across the room.”

“Yakov won’t be happy, Yuratchka.”  Viktor warned his younger protégé.  “He doesn’t like Harry for some reason.  With your debut coming up next season you might want to avoid pissing him off – well more than usual anyway.”

“You worry about yourself _old man_.”  Yuri spat back.  “It’ll be your ass Yakov tears a strip out of if he figures out you’re crushing on the best competition you’ve had in the last several years – at least until next year when I enter the Seniors.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  Viktor shrugged and went back to pouting into his drink when sponsors – or whoever – weren’t gushing all over him and forcing him to play the charming Russian Prince.

Only to lift his head and then jump to his feet sometime later as his coach made the biggest scene Viktor had ever even heard of let alone seen in person.

“You!”  Yakov shouted at Harry who was still leaning on the bar – though he quickly shoved off it and moved a few steps out and to the side so he wasn’t blocked in as the coach rampaged towards him.  The cause of Yakov finally giving into whatever had been bothering him for the last several days, Mila who had been chatting lightly with Harry, gave him an apologetic look before ducking back into the crowd.  “I thought I told you never to come back!”

That furious shout had the watching – and now confused – crowd, which encompassed most of the room, quieting as they tried to understand both Yakov’s accent which had deepened with liquor and anger, and the situation at large.  It seemed only those that were near the speaker set-up didn’t notice the confrontation happening at one end of the large room.  Well, them and some of the skaters who were taking advantage of the distraction to slip away, especially the Juniors who were all bored stiff by the party.  Lorcan came up silently behind Harry in support, touching him with a light hand on his lower back to let the other know he was there.

“If I remember correctly, Yakov.”  Harry arched a brow at his infuriated – and infuriating – former coach.  “You told me never to come back _to your facility_ , not skating at large.  I know it might be hard for you to believe, Coach Feltsman, but you do not, in fact _own_ the entire skating world even if your skaters are the two _current_ Junior and Senior Single Men’s champions.”

“You disrespectful little brat.”  Yakov seethed.  “You should have stayed on your disgusting little island since it was all that mattered to you.”

“My _family_ mattered – and still matters – to me, Yakov.  Something you never did understand.”  Harry shook his head mockingly.  “No wonder Lilia left you after you so callously threw me away.  And look at me now.”  He smirked at the face that was slowly turning an unattractive color of puce.  “Despite my, what was it again you used as your excuse to ban me from your summer camps?  My _lack of commitment_ and _divided focus_?  I just took Silver at the Grand Prix.”

“Losing to Viktor, _my_ skater-”

“Tsk.”  Harry cut off what was sure to be another rant about Harry’s life choices.  “Viktor Nikiforov is a talented skater and competitor.  He would have been a champion _no matter_ who coached him.  And somehow I would think he has more self-respect than to be okay with you using his accomplishments to erase your own bad life choices.”  Harry turned and smiled at Lorcan over his shoulder, dismissing the angry Russian.  “Ready to go?”

“More than.”  Lorcan said with no little amusement coloring his voice then whispering.  “You okay, _mon cher_?”

“Fine.”  Harry shrugged as they walked away from the crowd, not bothering to lower his voice one iota.  “Yakov’s abandonment stopped hurting when I won my first Junior British gold without him.”

Leaving a mess of tangled emotions behind them as the low buzz of gossip started making the rounds and the fight quickly went viral thanks to more than one enterprising person with a camera phone.

Some of whom waited, continuing to film discretely, as Viktor moved to his coach’s side.

“Did you really do that, Yakov?”  Viktor asked in Russian with a frown, trying to remember seeing Harry at Yakov’s facility in Moscow.  Which wasn’t easy considering his admittedly-bad attention span for things not his dog or his routines.  “Kick him out of your program?”

Yakov grunted, gesturing for the barkeep to hand over a bottle of vodka he had every intention of taking back to his room, already regretting his decision to confront Harry, as the younger man’s scathing words reminded him of things and choices best left forgotten.

“Nyet, I didn’t.”  Yakov told him then clarified with a sigh.  “I gave him an ultimatum, if he wanted to keep training with me he had to move to Moscow…like you and the rest of my skaters have done in the past.  The first time he turned me down, he was all of nine years old and so much _potential_ that losing him was too big of a risk to push the issue.  Like the first time I saw you and Yuri skate.  I just knew he could be a champion with help.  My help.  But he said no and his fathers said no, so,” Yakov shrugged.  “I did what I could, gave him a spot at my summer camp, trained him when his father would agree to spend a month or two in Russia.  That went on for a couple of years, you were just finishing out your run in the Juniors and moving up to Seniors and Yuri had just been brought to me by his grandfather Nikolai.  That’s when I gave him the ultimatum.  But even at twelve,” Yakov chuckled appreciatively now that the anger cleared, leaving the shame and regret he’d been struggling with ever since seeing Harry’s name on the list of approved ISU skaters behind.  “He was so damned _stubborn_ , tch.”  Yakov slugged back a shot of vodka and poured another.  “Reminds me of two little disobedient Russian brats I know.”

“He said no.”  Viktor clarified.  “And you lost your temper and banned him.”

“Mmm.”  Yakov shrugged.  “Your grandmother wasn’t pleased,” he said, referring to his ex-wife and Viktor’s grandmother Lilia Baronovskaya, Viktor’s mother being born well before the former _prima ballerina absoluta_ had either met Yakov or made her mark on the Bolshoi.  “She’d liked working with him since he was unusually focused even at that age.  It turned into yet another fight between us and that was that.  We divorced less than a year later.”

“You never should have confronted him Yakov.  It’ll be all over the skating news by the morning.”

“So the brat gets a little more press and a little less mystery.”  Yakov shrugged, moving towards the door.  “Such is life.  And Vitya?”

“Da?”

“Make sure Yuratchka doesn’t drink too much at this _afterparty_ you all think you’re sneaking past us coaches, da?”

“Da, Yakov.”  Viktor laughed, heading off to collect his rink-mates and change since now there was no need to try and be covert.

Nothing ever got past Yakov.  He didn’t know why Mila and Yuri even bother to try.  Viktor had learned that lesson in his first year under the irascible coaching legend…though in his case since he was married to Viktor’s then-guardian grandmother, staying under Yakov’s radar had always been harder on him.  Yakov, Viktor knew, saw him as the grandson he’d never had while Viktor had appreciated a stable male influence in his life, even when that stable male was reading him the riot act for being a ‘disobedient brat’ over Viktor sneaking out or changing triples to quads in his routines.  Viktor was also one of the only Junior skaters Yakov has ever had on his roster that wasn’t part of a sponsorship program, which, since his place at the club wasn’t financed through Yakov’s largesse with the expectation that it would be repaid once he started winning, gave him much more autonomy than Yakov’s other skaters.

Autonomy that he used to make sure he wouldn’t get grounded by the old man over his increasing interest in Harry Evans.

No matter the bad blood between the skater and Viktor’s coach, the younger man was one of the most intriguing things to happen to Viktor in a very long time.

And one that he was very attracted to discovering the secrets of.

If nothing else, Harry Evans had at least made winning a challenge again – something that had been sorely missed in Viktor’s last several seasons.

…

“Oooh!  Stripper pole!”

Viktor, Mila, and Yuri heard Chris’s ecstatic shout as soon as the elevator opened onto the access-level to the penthouse two-story suite of the hotel.

“Music!  I need music!”

“One hundred euros says he’s already in his underwear by the time we get to him.”  Mila said immediately to the men.

“Nyet.”  Yuri shook his head.  “No deal.  He’ll be naked, the idiot.”

“Nyet.”  Victor corrected him in turn.  “Chris is a bit wild but he’s got a good head on his shoulders.  He wouldn’t strip down to his skin.”  There was an unspoken code that athletes didn’t sell each other out, especially to the press – or worse their coaches.  But d’Eath and his people were unknown quantities, likely keeping some of the wilder skaters in check lest they end up on a tabloid cover because musicians don’t follow that same code.  Victor thought a moment then offered: “No pants but still wearing his underwear and shirt.”

“Deal.”  The other two agreed as they followed the sounds of the song Chris had selected into the main living area of the suite to the sight of an after-party in full-swing.  Yuri had made them stop so he could change out of his suit into jeans and a normal shirt, which meant Mila had to change as well.  The others had probably beaten them by at least half-an-hour up to the penthouse based on the comment the bellhop in charge of manning the penthouse elevator made to Victor.

Though that it had _taken_ half-an-hour for Chris to find the stripper pole was the part that amazed Viktor, being well-aware of his friend’s habits once he’d had a glass of champagne or two.

The living area had had all of the furniture pushed to the edges of the room to create a dance floor – with, yes, a stripper pole at the opposite end from a stereo set-up that was too large to fit with the rest of the room.  Lorcan must have had it set-up just for the party.  The bar was being manned by a beautiful man with blond hair and tanned skin while an actual dj was hovering over the sound set-up, a woman with sharp features and curling hair obviously dyed in a rainbow of neon colors.

Mila frowned, recognizing both of them as part of Lorcan’s normal entourage, before her eyes were drawn to the pole and the blond Swiss skater currently sliding down it.

Cursing, Yuri dug into the back pocket of his jeans, handing over a 100-euro bill to Vitya as Mila pouted and did the same, though Viktor was barely able to peel his eyes off the scene to accept the payouts.

Chris was twirling around the pole in his silk boxer-briefs and button-down shirt and tie, yes.

But he wasn’t alone, joined by a laughing and teasing Harry Evans who, while much more relaxed in dress than he’d been at the banquet in tight black leather pants and a white silk t-shirt, was in no way any _less_ seductive than his pole-dancing friend despite wearing more clothes.

“You’re drooling again, Vitya.”  Yuri said as he made his way over to the bar with a scowl.  “Stop it.  You’re only embarrassing yourself.”

“He’s just…”  Viktor flailed one hand a bit helplessly as he stared at the scene, Mila patting his back consolingly as she tried to get her own hormones under control by consciously choosing to avoid looking at the two skaters who were apparently trying to one-up each other with pole-dancing tricks to the classic – and clichéd – beat of _Pour Some Sugar On Me_.

“I know, Vitya, I know.”  Mila sighed, spotting Lorcan lounging on a leather sofa looking every inch the king of the manor as his eyes constantly tracked across the room.

Muttering curses under his breath, Viktor tore his eyes away from the lust-inspiring display, striding after Yuri to get himself a bracing drink – and warn the bartender away from simply giving into Yuri’s demands for a bottle of vodka.

If the little brat wanted to kill his liver, he could do it one drink at a time and suffer the company of others, the same as everyone else.

Drink in hand – and having ruined Yuri’s plans of perching in a dark corner mocking the older skaters and taking video with his phone while killing a bottle of vodka – Viktor felt ready to face the room again, turning and leaning against the bar in a mirror of Harry’s position during the banquet as he studied the on-going party.

Mila, he saw immediately, had been absorbed by a group of the other female skaters, many of whom were watching d’Eath and giggling behind their hands or watching Harry talking Chris off the pole for the time being, the two men having exhausted their repertoire of tricks…that they could both remember at the moment, Chris looking as if he’d already helped himself to a bottle of champagne during the banquet before splitting another with his long-time boyfriend, a professional hockey player named Theo, who was sitting and chatting with d’Eath as he sipped occasionally from a bottle that Viktor recognized as being from Chris’s favorite winery.  Most everyone was either dancing or standing around drinking while chatting and laughing.  A much more convivial and vibrant group than the subdued professional athletes who had been on their best (or best _-ish_ ) behavior in front of the coaches, sponsors, and officials.

“Phichit!”  Harry suddenly called out over the music.  “Chris doesn’t believe you know how to pole-dance!”

The Thai skater who had been dancing with one of the women from Pairs, turned after saying something to his partner who quickly joined up with another skater as Phichit wandered over towards his friend.  Viktor arched a brow.  For a skater who didn’t have a reputation as much of a partier for all that he was considered one of the nicer and more personable skaters, Phichit was having a bit of trouble walking in a straight line.

Viktor felt a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.

“What are _you_ so happy about, hm?”  Yuri asked him as he tossed back another white Russian and followed Viktor’s line of sight to the Thai midget, the annoying Swiss, and the talentless Brit.

“Did you know I was there when they made that bet about Evans’s topless photo?”  Viktor asked him idly.

“No.”  Yuri snorted.  “What does it matter?  He still made an ass of himself in front of the world didn’t he?”

“Well I was.”  Viktor gave a full-blown laugh, humor – and understanding – lighting up his blue eyes.  “And that’s what’s behind all this: specifically, Phichit set up Harry with that bet.  And now…”

Viktor discretely pointed towards the supposedly-distracted Lorcan who was playing with his phone…which never stopped pointing at the trio of Harry, Chris, and now Phichit who was nodding along with the other men.

“I knew something stank about all this.”  Yuri muttered – almost admiring the cunning of the idiot Brit for going through such an elaborate set up just to get blackmail on his own friend.  “I’m just glad _he’s_ the one being conned into making an ass of himself and not one of us…”

“They’re friends, I doubt Evans is planning on uploading the video his friend is taking to YouTube.”  Viktor shrugged, knocking back his drink as Chris wandered over his way, likely in hopes of enticing him to dance.  Theo was wonderful for his friend, but in one area – despite being a fluid skater on the ice…for a hockey player – he fell flat, dancing.  Which made Viktor Chris’s often-used stand-in when the Swiss man wanted to do more than just stand in one place and sway while clinging to Theo’s ridiculously broad shoulders.

“You never know.”  Yuri muttered darkly, scowl deepening as he saw the Swiss bastard coming their way to make off with Vitya the way he always does.  “You watched the same Free Skate as I did.  Evans might not be as _nice_ as you think if he can skate a program like that.”

There, Viktor had to admit, the teenager had a valid point.

He could think of many descriptors – in more than one language – for Harry’s _Shatter Me_ performance and _nice_ certainly wasn’t one of them.

But before he could respond, he had a tipsy Swiss hanging off his neck as the music changed from a general party-mix into something more suited to the more classical dance styles almost every skater was trained in such as ballet and ballroom.  Some skaters – especially the younger ones like Phichit and Yuri – had also trained in newer dance styles like hip-hop and break dancing, which were gaining popularity for mixing into routines in the wake of the lyrics-ban being lifted by the ISU.  Viktor was a relic – or at least he felt so at times – who both remembered and whose career straddled the two eras of international figure skating.  He’d been raised and trained in the days before the ISU’s new scoring system had been put in place, quads were performed regularly in competition, or lyrics were allowed in their music.  He’d won medals under both old and new systems, and while if pushed would admit that he preferred the newer ways, especially as they drew new fans to the sport which equaled more and better payouts to the skaters and less skaters struggling with making ends meet and near-poverty, he would _also_ admit that he missed the days where the scoring wasn’t as stringent and the bar wasn’t as high.

Viktor had raised a lot of those bars himself, and in that way he only had himself to blame as he struggled year after year to find inspiration to keep out-doing himself…since until recently it had appeared that the only _capable_ of beating Viktor’s best _was_ Viktor.

Oh, he’d occasionally lose a short program now and then, or take a minor injury and have to sit out a competition.

But before Yuri – and now Harry – there hadn’t been a single upcoming skater who really worried him, and most of the skating world had agreed.

It had seemed that the only way someone was going to dethrone the Russian Ice Prince was _after_ his retirement, he mused to himself as he swung Chris through the rhythmic seduction of a bachata, Chris’s hip pops landing right on the beat despite his tipsiness.  A glance towards the stripper pole and the group around it showed that while he’d been dancing with Chris through their first dance, an American swing, Phichit had been released from the clutches of his friend and claimed Sara Crispino for the bachata as well, while Harry leaned over the back of d’Eath’s shoulder and laughed watching what was without a doubt the results of Phichit’s pole-dancing routine, Theo apparently critiquing the performance along with them.  But it all seemed pleasant and good-spirited, nothing derogatory towards the cheerful bright skater so Viktor felt a little of his unease with the situation slide away as the next song had him leading Chris into a slow waltz after the two high-energy songs – and dances – preceding it.

“Where are you, Vit’ka?”  Chris asked, his eyes cleared a bit from the champagne with their activity, and a bit of a pout on his handsome face.  “I was pulling out some of my best moves – well off the ice and out of the bedchamber anyway – and I barely got a twitch out of you.”  His eyes followed where Viktor’s had been once they turned with the music.  “ _Ah_ , of course.”  Chris chuckled.  “Our newest competitor until the kitten makes his debut.  He has fire, I’ll give him that.  Here’s hoping that the rigors of our world don’t smother it.  _That_ would be a shame.”

“Yes, his performance was…fierce.”  Viktor decided after a moment.  “He needs to clean it up if he wants to win.”  He left off the expected _against me_.

“Fierce is a good way to describe it.”  Chris chuckled.  “If his skating wasn’t _fierce_ enough his tongue certainly is capable of taking up the slack.”

“Hmm?”

Eyes widened under an – at this point – unruly mop of blond hair.

“You haven’t heard?”  Chris gasped, then realization dawned.  “Yakov still has you on social media blackout doesn’t he?”

“Mmm.”  Viktor nodded, frowning lightly over whatever had his friend – his best-friend other than Makka if he was being honest – in a tizzy.  “He would’ve taken our phones if we’d let him.  But he settled for changing our passwords until after we leave for Moscow.”

Moscow being where Yakov’s center was located, which was handy for those like Yuri whose grandfather lived nearby, but not so much for those like Viktor.  His grandmother might live close but the two of them didn’t have a relationship that lent itself to proximity making a difference.  They were much more coach/instructor and student than anything resembling family.  Viktor kept his apartment in St. Petersburg more out of a need for some distance during his off-season and enjoyment of the most Westernized Russian city with its cultural center than any sentimental value…and because Makkachin liked to run on the beaches by the Baltic Sea or Neva River.

“Is it that bad?”  Viktor asked.

“Depends on what you mean by _bad_.”  Chris told him wryly as they ended the dance and stepped back over towards the bar to replenish themselves.  Meanwhile Yuri had grown bored of sitting around, and a bit drunk on vodka and Kahlua, pounced on Harry and Phichit and nagging them into a dance-off which had the music swinging back towards hip-hop and R &B.  “Lots of people, lots of fans, are celebrating your win.”

“But not everyone.”  Viktor commented with a knowing look.  Even a skater as popular and dominating in a spot as he has been for the last several years faced backlash from fans or critics.  It was just the way of things, especially in a sport where much of scoring is based on performance – and therefore up to widely varying interpretations.

“No, not everyone.”  Chris shrugged his shoulders a little.  “There’s been more than one comparison to those two female skaters in the 90’s – you know the ones, the Asian who was popular with the judges and her rival from France?”

Viktor winced instinctively.  That was _never_ good.  Many skaters worked very, _very_ hard to avoid repeats of that era, leading to many of the strict changes in scoring in the mid-2000’s when he was starting in the Junior division.

“Are they burning me in effigy yet?”  Viktor asked with more than a little humor.  It would blow over.  Things like this always did.  And if they _didn’t_ then they were usually the spring-board for policy changes.

Whether good or bad changes was always in the eye of the beholder, but changes nonetheless.

“Well, some were close.”  Chris laughed.  “But apparently our Mr. Evans has a strict code about bad-mouthing his fellow athletes.  Released a statement and everything.  I’d start with _that_ tomorrow when Yakov unlocks your accounts.”  Chris advised.  “Be careful though.  If you’re not infatuated with him already, you just might be after reading his rather _vigorous_ defense of you in the press and social media.”

“Will I?”  Viktor arched a mocking brow, giving wordless reference to his “Icy” persona.  People around the world loved to love Viktor.  That didn’t mean he loved them back, understanding from the time he first performed on the international stage – and perhaps the _one_ good piece of advice Lilia ever gave him – that fans, sponsors, officials, and even other skaters would all love him for who they _thought_ he was or wanted him to be.  And while he had no problem playing a part on the ice or for the camera, he refused to do it in private.

If all the world was his stage, then the world was likewise his audience – and Viktor had no intention of giving his heart to someone in love with an idea or façade.

Chris gave a little moue, looking sulky for a brief moment as he gave the question the consideration it deserved.  Viktor’s had his share of flings and torrid brief affairs, with men and women both.  But love?  No, Chris had to admit.  Not even with him has Viktor ever been in love, and Chris had outlasted every other attempt – before or since – at being Viktor’s one-and-only.  It was years ago now, after Chris had just come up from Juniors and they’d reconnected, sparking a year-long affair that blazed when they were together…and fizzled when they weren’t.  Chris had eventually moved on, making a not-inconsiderable reputation for himself as a playboy before settling down with Theo two years ago while Vitya was still flying as free and unfettered as ever…but now unlike before where the freedom had merely been another part of him, now it threatened to bruise and break him on the high winds, perhaps even carrying him away entirely.

“I don’t know darling Vitya.”  Chris answered at last as Phichit won the dance-off to a great number of hoots and hollers, the party half-way between full-swing and winding-down as Harry, his white shirt nearly transparent in places from clinging to his sweat-slicked chest, strode over to the dj and whispered in her ear, the girl smiling and changing gears once more to music with heavy Latin-inspired beats or even more modern big-band type music, the first song clearly a salsa as Harry grabbed Sara Crispino, her over-protective brother Micky too engrossed with the American woman from the pairs event to notice, twirling her into a salsa.  “No one could know that, no one but you.  You’re clearly interested in him.”  Chris told him with a wry glance.  “And we all know how you get when something interests you, hmm?”

Chris knew full well…once an idea for a routine or a sequence or a jump combination, and very rarely a person, grabbed Viktor’s attention, he didn’t let it go until he’d conquered it or them.  Viktor threw his head back and laughed, Chris’s words clearly referring to the high-volume-lectures he’s always garnered from Yakov especially in the beginning of his Senior career, usually in the Kiss-and-Cry, over being a disobedient brat and changing his routines because he saw one of the older skaters landing jumps higher then him or having footwork more complex.  While Yakov often derided him as a selfish airhead, when it came to the ice there was no one more bullheaded than Viktor Nikiforov.

“Just…”  Chris hesitated then decided to carry through with what was on his mind, having gotten to know Harry Evans a bit better than most who were only just now deigning to give the young skater their attention with his GPF Silver.  “Be careful, will you Vit’ka?”

“You think I’m going to get my heart broken?”

“Considering the size of his _other_ friend, I’d be more worried about your pretty face.”  Chris muttered, nearly to himself.  “But yes.  I’m _also_ worried about _him_ and his heart.”  Chris rolled his eyes at the fluttering lashes and pouting expression on Viktor’s pretty face.  “Don’t even.”  Chris shoved away from the bar and over towards his Theo, who was now sitting alone with Lorcan having gone off to steal Harry for what looked – whew, Chris almost felt himself blush at the sight of it – like a kizomba with Harry dancing the female or following position.  “Viktor.”  Chris’s voice was unusually serious even as he refused to turn back to watch his best-friend’s expression change with his words.  “He’s young.  And something tells me at least a little bit damaged like all the rest of us.  And god knows…you can be just careless enough to break that boy’s heart…if you’re not careful.”

 _For once in your life, anyway_.

With that, Chris threw himself into Theo’s arms for a kiss, then whispered a naughty suggestion that had his lover laughing and stealing him away like many of the other paired-up skaters for the privacy of their hotel room, leaving Viktor alone with his thoughts – and his vodka.

At least until sweet Sara bounced over to him and pulled him into the mess of dancing bodies, Viktor giving one of his charming smiles as he swung her into the salsa that was still dominating the music pouring from the speakers.

A few more songs, and a few dances with the remaining somewhat-sober ladies from both the singles and pair events, and something slower, and infinitely _smoother_ came on with the sound of a man’s voice highlighted by the low, teasing sounds of the orchestra as his current partner, Georgi’s girlfriend Anya who’d competed in the Pairs, laughing and waving him off before Mila bounded over and whispered in her ear, the two of them getting matching devious looks on their pretty faces before grabbing him and spinning him around as someone behind him did the same to whoever it was he was to partner with, then backing off, leaving them alone and facing each other on the cleared dance floor.

Surprised emerald green eyes looked up into bright blue as a raven’s-wing black brow arched.

Harry stepped forward, arms moving into a position that Viktor had probably partnered another in a hundred times over the years – but never with anyone who intrigued him like Harry as the two of them gave into the wordless request of their friends and the moves demanded by the music, stepping into a tango with the sound of “ _Feelin’ Good”_ by Michael Buble highlighting every step, eyes locked on each other and never looking away as they focused on each other, the steps, and the beat to the exclusion of all else.

Lorcan leaned over to Adrian from where he’d gone for a blood-wine and whispered: “Tell me you’re getting this.”

Adrian nodded once, pointing to the cameras they’d set up to capture Phichit’s pole-dance, responding: “Never turned them off.”

Lorcan gave him an approving smile before watching – the same with everyone else still sober enough to do so – as the gold and silver men’s GPF winners twirled and twined and spun around each other, locked together in a dance that almost seemed like it might never end.

He felt a pang, not necessarily over what any fool could see waking between the two of them – even if it was only still in the nascent stage – Lorcan had never been a jealous lover.  More for what _might have been_ between them if Harry had never decided to return to skating.  If he’d chosen music or Quidditch or becoming a Healer or anything else really, instead.  But that path was disappearing for them, moment by moment, with each step of the dance – both the one they were locked in on the dance floor and the now-growing-visible one off of it – between the Russian Ice Prince and the Boy-Who-Lived.

Lorcan felt himself mourn – just a moment – before shaking it, and his moment of presentiment off.

Sometimes, he really _hated_ being a damphir and all that had come with it.

Nevertheless, while the two skaters’ paths might someday converge, they weren’t there _yet_ , Harry’s still twining with Lorcan’s, and Krum’s, own and it would still yet for some time.

“To the future, Adrian.”  Lorcan toasted his assistant briefly.  “And watching it unfold before your very eyes.”

…

Later, after the rest of the partiers had vanished back to their own – or one of the other skaters’ – rooms, Lorcan pinned Harry up against the dancing pole, letting loose a feral growl ripe with silky promise.

“You’ve been teasing me all night, vixen.”  He hissed, eyes bleeding black with more than one kind of hunger.  “I think it’s time you paid up…”

…

A horrified shriek rang through a room and down the hall from one of the rooms in the GPF’s official hotel as Phichit Chulanont opened up his phone to find a video message playing on a loop, sent from his friend Harry’s phone.

He could see it…but he didn’t want to believe it as he saw himself spinning and twirling and grinding around a pole, steadily shedding his clothes.

 _How much did I_ drink _last night?_   He questioned himself, in stunned shock.  But that wasn’t the only video Phichit had been sent, though thankfully only relatively-harmless selfies and group-shots from the party had been posted to social media.  Harry wasn’t _that_ evil, though there would have been a sense of vindictive justice to it considering how embarrassed his British friend had been over their bet.

Phichit had also been sent other videos from Harry, of Phichit dancing up a storm with Yuri Plisetsky and Harry in what looked like a hip-hop/break dance competition, sharing a salsa with Sara Crispino – though he had to question what was _in those drinks_ one more time when he realized that for once Micky hadn’t been sticking to his younger sister like glue, and more.

But what _really_ interested Phichit wasn’t any of the selfies, group-shots, or even the videos – and implicit blackmail – Harry had shared with him but a shaky clip sent from Mila Babicheva.

A clip of none other than Harry dancing what was nothing short of a damn-sexy tango with the Russian Prince himself.

Phichit smirked a little and arched a brow, despite the pain the action shot through his hangover as the two men moved through about a minute’s worth of the dance, Harry following as Nikiforov lead, complete with dips, lifts, and the sharp footwork the dance demanded.

He gave a soft whistle at the end of the clip, the heat from the two of them palpable even from a shaky cellphone recording taken by a tipsy Mila.

There was certainly a sense of delicious irony to it, the Thai skater thought.  Harry had likely set up that whole party to get some decent blackmail on Phichit to keep him from entangling him in another scene like the one involving his topless photo, only to come face-to-face with someone with whom he had undeniable chemistry…and was just as stubborn as Harry was from what Phichit had noticed over the last two years on the Senior circuit.  He laughed to himself, delighted at the turn of events.

Mr. Not-Dating, Not-Interested, Just-Friends-With-Two-Ridiculously-Hot-Guys, had just met his match.

Phichit could hardly wait for the flames to erupt.

…

** Harry Evans Makes Statement **

** Both On and Off Ice **

**In a statement released directly onto his new social media pages as well as several news outlets, Harry Evans, 18, and the newest Silver-Medaling skater to participate in the ISU Grand Prix Final for Men’s Singles Figure Skating in the Senior Division, addressed a few key topics which were raised by his second-place finish earlier this week.**

**The statement, written and released within hours after his performance at the GPF came to a finish, a performance that netted him personal-bests in his Short Program and Free Skate as well as overall score, seemed devoted to clearing up any misinterpretations of his silver-medal debut at the GPF, taking on the allegations of skating bias that have been floated by both skating critics, sports reporters, and fans alike.**

**However, more interestingly, his statement also served as a bit of hand-slapping recrimination for some of his fans or just general troublemakers, who blamed gold-medalist Viktor Nikiforov’s popularity and image for Evans’s loss.**

**In a headline-making quote, Evans stated:**

**“I have not now nor have I ever felt the need to build myself up by breaking anyone else down.  Viktor is a talented athlete and performer who turned in gold-medal performance and received exactly that.  Shame on anyone who blames him for winning, no matter what they think of our different styles of skating.”**

**As far as the allegations of bias by the skating officials, Evans went on to say this:**

**“Bias exists on every level of society.  It’s only natural that each and every person has a style of skating that they prefer.  I took Silver today, but have won many gold medals in the past.  The only person I have to answer to regarding how I skate is myself – and the ISU regulations.  I didn’t make any illegal moves or tricks; my performance score simply wasn’t enough to win.  I won’t pillory the judges because my routine needs work to beat Viktor, that wouldn’t be fair to them _or_ to me or the other skaters who didn’t win – this time.  That’s the beauty of professional competition, there’s always another cup, medal, or prize to win.  And I’m not going to let worries and jumping at shadows over whether I’m too this or too that, keep me from performing my best – my way.”**

**In the aftermath of the GPF, one thing however is certain: international figure skating as gained a rising star that doesn’t balk at making his voice heard, either on or off the ice.**

**…**

Harry blew through the Dublin Cup more out of a sense of obligation to his (formerly) mostly-U.K. and Ireland fan base than any real need to compete, though he did use it to refine some of the artistic changes he’d made in his _Shatter Me_ performance, cleaning up his step sequences and movements in the field to chip away at the point gap between himself and Viktor.

His family came to see him and stayed through the whole event with his Viktor able to nab a port-key over from Sofia where the Vultures had a bye week in the European circuit, and Viktor for once didn’t have a packed schedule between his home team and the Bulgarian National Team that was in full-swing of preparations for the QWC tournament.

The Quidditch World Cup may take place in the summer, but for countries like Viktor’s home where they were determined to bring home the Cup before Viktor’s inevitable retirement, practices never really stopped even as they selected, discarded, and replaced players as injuries during the regular season with their home teams took their toll.

Everyone cheered him on through his first-place performance, and social media stirred again after dying down following the GPF with pictures taken by fans swarmed his feed with clips of him with his dads and Rome, as well as one particular image of him and Viktor exchanging a steamy kiss outside the arena on their way to the hotel down the block where Harry was staying for the cup.  That picture, Lorcan’s absence, as well as more than one clip of the damphir dancing and partying in Paris or Amsterdam or Prague had put a damper on the rumors circulating regarding Harry and the singer, just as they’d both thought that would.  Though when Lorcan and another man were seen entering the doors to Harry’s London apartment a week after Dublin, the flame of chatter surrounding them reignited.

“Harry!”  Lorcan shouted as he jogged lightly up the stairs to the ice rink that took up the top floor of Harry’s penthouse.  It was a bright April day, and his friend/sometimes lover had won again on the international stage, this time in Dublin.  But not, unfortunately, against the best in the world who Harry would be facing in another two short weeks at the European championships in Prague.

An event that had inspired Lorcan to pull a couple strings and led to his unscheduled pop-over to Harry’s…something he knew the wizard hated on weekdays since he spent most of the day immersed in his training.  Harry trained the way all of the best professional athletes train – constantly and obsessively.  He didn’t take days off, even if it meant fitting in a run or swim while on vacation with his family or having to push a visit with a friend to later or earlier in the day so he could get some ice-time.  Interrupting him during the week, especially when he was already on the ice and working, was a cardinal sin as far as the skater was concerned.

He still went out and had fun, visited with his family and friends.

Hell, he was at a class or studio or practice of some kind in one of this secondary disciplines six days out of seven, keeping him from turning into a grumpy old hermit during the week.

For Harry, skating was his vocation and he worked harder at it then most of the people Lorcan knew worked at _anything_ , including himself unless he was on tour or actively recording his newest album.

Which meant Lorcan, even knowing that their affair was sure to end, and possibly sooner rather than later, wanted to support him as best he could, hence his visit with someone else in tow.

A someone else that wouldn’t likely be able to do much for Harry’s _current_ skating season, mainly because there just wasn’t enough time for Harry to polish another routine before Worlds, let alone the European championships.

But who _would_ most definitely, be able to help Harry with his preparations for next season…an Olympic season.

Lorcan found Harry where his schedule told him he’d be: out on the ice.  But instead of practicing his routine, the damphir watched him skate purposefully around for a few minutes before realizing what the wizard was doing.  He honestly couldn’t be blamed for not recognizing the skills the wizard was practicing, after all, figure skaters didn’t _actually_ skate special or compulsory figures as requirements anymore.  They used to, and Lorcan recognized it from when he was a younger damphir and was investigating whether or not he should compose for the “new” sport of figure skating.

As it was a skill no longer needed as part of a routine, the only reason Lorcan could divine that Harry would practice it was the control and power of movement it lent to a skater, as well as helping refine what had been identified as one of Harry’s weaknesses in his _Shatter Me_ performance, his footwork.

Which was rather entertaining when you considered how many different disciplines Harry had studied over the years to help him with that exact area of the sport, including ballet, fencing, and boxing among other styles of dance.

Lorcan gave a soft smile as Harry finally woke up from the near-trace the rhythmic motions had put him in and realized he had an audience.

Maybe Harry would like his gift – and forgive his intrusion and high-handedness over it – after all.

“Come on, _mon cher_ , I brought you a present!”

A wave from the wizard had Lorcan retreating back down to the first floor of the penthouse where Lorcan had left his guest/gift to wander around while he summoned Harry, who would join him/them once he’d sopped up some of his sweat and swapped out his skates for some shoes.

…

Harry eyed the intruder into his home with a narrowed gaze that swung dangerously over to his friend demanding an explanation.

Bad enough Lo’ decided to just pop over when in London for a meeting with his agent – and yes, Harry _had_ in fact paid attention when Lorcan had told him he would be by.  The damphir _had_ , however, made it sound as if he’d come by _after_ Harry’s practices were all over so they could have dinner – and depending on both of their moods, made something for dessert to help both of them release some stress and tension.  Instead, he’d felt the wards warn him that Lorcan had brought someone with him, leading to him ignoring the damphir until he’d calmed down a bit.

Harry couldn’t ward the entire building, he wasn’t the only one living there after all.  But he had hired the goblins to ward the penthouse itself, starting at the threshold of either the emergency access stairs or the elevator.  If nothing else, it kept reporters from bothering him at home, even if they _did_ occasionally hang out in the downstairs foyer or the street…depending on how visible he’d been with Lorcan or his Viktor during a given time frame or what scandals other skaters and sports stars were embroiled in.

“You do know, Lorcan.”  Harry asked dryly, turning his gaze away from the handsome man who was approximately in his early forties based on what he knew about aging among muggles.  “That people can’t _actually_ be given as presents in Britain…right?”

“And here I was worried.”  The man – American from his accent – said with a cocky smirk.

“Yes, yes.”  Lorcan waved his hand dismissively.  “Nevertheless, introductions.  Harry Evans, meet Cooper Neilson, your new choreographer.  Cooper, this is Harry Evans one of the top professional figure skaters in the world.”

“I recognize the name.”  Harry mused, cocking his head to one side as he tried to place it.  “I think I saw you dance Prince Stephen once when London Ballet put on _Sleeping Beauty_.  You retired from dancing several years ago, yeah?”

“That’s right.”  Cooper nodded, eyeing his new project with the critical eye of both a trained _premier danseur_ as well as being a former-director of his own ballet/dance company before retiring from all the limelight.  Now he stuck to doing independent contracts for varying dance companies – or in this case a figure skater.  He was one of the best, so he was able to do as he pleased – just the way he liked it.  And from what he’d seen of this young man’s borderline-rebellious style of skating, they’d get along just fine.  “You move like a dancer off the ice.”  He said after he’d gotten done cataloging long, strong legs, lean stomach, the strong arch of a back and the heavily muscled chest and arms.  When he’d been the director of his dance company, he’d have _killed_ to have someone like this in his chorus for lifts.  “Why don’t you move like one on it all the time instead of just in your short program?”  And even there he had issues with fluidity.

“Personal preference.”  Harry shrugged, willing to pander to Lorcan’s current whim…for the moment.  “As far as performances go, Nikiforov is impossible to beat with just your performance score.  You have to get him with jumps and arrangements that he doesn’t have the stamina to match.  They’re not the easiest concepts to join together into one routine: the athleticism of the jumps and the artistry of the skating.”

“What do you need for next year?”

“Two programs – a short and a free skate – that’ll win me an Olympic Gold.”  Harry said bluntly.

“Well, Mr. d’Eath.”  Cooper chuckled.  “You didn’t hire me for shits and giggles, did you?”

“No,” Lorcan smirked, eyes gleaming.  “You’re going to have to _earn_ your fee this time.”

“Great.”  Cooper snorted then turned back to the watching skater.  “I don’t suppose you have a guest room you’d open up for me do you?  If we’re going to make this work around your other routines and on-going events, I’m probably going to need to stay close.”

“I didn’t agree.”  Harry pointed out.

“You didn’t not, either.”  Lorcan shook his head, making for the foyer and Cooper’s things which should have arrived by now.  “From you that’s as good as a benediction, _cher_.”

…

Cooper and Harry got along like a pair of stray tom cats forced into the same pen at the shelter – which was to say, not at all and with lots of hissing and growling.

At least, at the beginning anyway, until they learned to at least respect each other’s abilities even if they couldn’t bring themselves to like each other as people.

Quite a bit of the tension came from Harry not wanting Cooper in his space – and banning the man-whore from bringing back any of his randoms to Harry’s home.  The former _premier danseur_ was less-than-thrilled to have to rent a hotel room – or convince the woman in question to go back to hers – when Harry owned one of the nicest penthouses in the city.  Needless to say, it took them more than a few moments to figure out how to coexist until Cooper finished the choreography and felt that Harry knew it forwards and backwards.

However, Cooper quickly realized that Harry was just as dedicated to his skating as any prima ballerina he’d ever met, assuaging at least part of Cooper’s concerns over dealing with an eighteen-year-old client/student.

Harry allowed Cooper to take over – though only temporarily – his small dance studio and while they were in that part of the penthouse, followed the firm task-master’s instructions.

But they quickly found that Cooper – while highly talented – had no idea of what was popular among figure skating fans and judges.

He knew how to choreograph for ice – that wasn’t the problem.

The rub was that Cooper had ever only done so for ice _shows_ and not for a figure skater – especially one on Harry’s level of competition.

Harry, resigned to having yet another rumor spring up surrounding his love life, arranged for Cooper fly with him to Prague and view both the Junior and Senior European ISU Championships in all three categories: Men’s, Women’s, and Pairs; to give him a better idea of the atmosphere than he’d gained over the last ten days from watching film of the events or Harry’s rehearsals and practices.

“Whoa.”  Cooper commented as he got an up-close-and-personal view of the media circus that followed the ISU circuit.  “I haven’t seen that much press around since my last gala.”

“Reports live and die by the triumvirate that sells papers.”  Harry told him with a shrug as the doors to the elevator slid closed at the official hotel in Prague.  “Controversy, sex, and rivalries.  Figure skating tends to be packed with all three, besides having a built-in fan base to cater to.”

“Why the fascination with me though?”

“Did you do _any_ research on me at all before you took Lorcan’s job offer?”  Harry asked in exasperation.

“Not really.”  Cooper shrugged unconcerned.  “All I really needed to know was what the piece or pieces would be used for to make sure they fit in my wheelhouse as a choreographer.  I read enough about you to know that you’re more in favor of modern music compositions and have enough skill to be able to learn what I have to teach.  That was all I really needed to know.”

“Right.”  Harry responded dead-pan, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger as they left the elevator for the suite Harry had booked this time which had an empty bedroom for each of them.  His family would be arriving soon and staying on the same floor in the adjoining suite that shared connecting doors in the living areas.  “Crash-course then: everyone and their mother is convinced that despite Lo’ constantly being picture with other people, and me with Viktor, that we’re having some kind of mad love affair.  With his international fame – and reputation as a playboy – that sells papers all on its own.  When you add in that a lot of people apparently believe that the ISU judges marked me down unfairly in the last major competition against the best skater _in the world_ …”

“Sex, controversy, rivalry, got it.”  Cooper hummed under his breath as the light dawned regarding some of the questions that had been lobbed at both him and Harry in the hotel lobby.  Then he had to ask: “ _Were_ you unfairly marked down?”  And was that the reason for someone of Lorcan d’Eath’s high-profile to hire Cooper for someone he was/wasn’t/whatever in a relationship with?

Harry just shrugged.  “Scoring is rigorous and at least partially subjective at this level of competition.  I know my free skate program isn’t perfect, especially in contrast with the one Nikiforov has been sweeping gold through all the competitions with.”  Putting his things in his bedroom, he raised his voice to be heard by the older man.  “If bias _was_ involved, there’s no way to prove it.”  Coming back out he modulated his voice to finish his thought.  “And if I learned anything from history it’s that kicking up a fuss about it would only make it worse…if I do it personally.”

“But let your fans and the press do it.”  Cooper smirked.  If it wasn’t for him being obsessive over his privacy Cooper could learn to like this kid.  “And the officials can’t hold you accountable for it.”

“Especially since I released a statement right after the Grand Prix agreeing that Nikiforov had skated a gold-winning routine.”  Harry said with a little chuckle.  “Mainly I gave a statement because I was pissed about them running down Nikiforov to make me look better…but I got that bit in there too once my head cooled a little.”

The people of wizarding Britain liked to characterize Slytherins as the only ones capable of being cunning.  They often forgot that honey badgers often eat snakes for breakfast.  Harry’s ability to be a sly little shit should never be underestimated – as many of his friends and enemies had learned the hard way over the years.

“Nice play.”  Cooper told him with honest appreciation.

“Thank you.”

…

Being a much larger-scale tournament than the Grand Prix, which was invitation-only for competitors, it took a full day to get through the short programs of each division in each category, finishing as always with the Men’s Singles Senior division, giving Harry five days between arriving in Prague and when he’d have to compete.  Cooper spent those five days mostly hanging out around the rink – either flirting with female skaters or closely watching the Junior Men’s division.  Especially once Harry pointed out the tiny blond Russian teenager that would be moving up to the Senior division the next season, making him an upcoming competitor for Harry.

Harry sat through Yuri’s short program as well, having gotten to know the younger skater, at least a little bit, through his Sochi afterparty and social media during the last six weeks.

“He’s good.”  Cooper commented, having seen enough programs at this point – over half of the Junior Men’s division and all of the Junior Women’s and Pairs – to make a judgement on the skill of the skaters.  “ _Really_ good.  He’s going to be one of your competitors next season?”

“Yep.”  Harry said, not moving a muscle from where he was leaning forward and watching every last arm movement, piece of footwork, and jump.

“Is he good enough for the Olympics?”

“Good enough?”  Harry shot his eyes over to glance at Cooper for a split second.  “Yes.  Yes, he is.  The problem isn’t talent with the Russian ice kitten.  It’s patience, skill, and whether his body will finally fuck him over or not.”

Cooper glanced back at the ice, brows arched, as he started comparing the petite teenager not against the other young skaters he’d seen the last couple of days, but against the film Harry had shown him as well as the routines he’d seen Harry skate.  There were distinct similarities in the roughness of the skating in places, but Harry had been clearly working on cleaning it up.  Whereas with the blond boy it just came off as sloppy in comparison.

“How old is he again?”

“Fifteen.”  Harry told him, jumping to his feet and whistling, applauding loudly as Yuri completed his last jump – a triple axel-triple loop combo – perfectly.

“He hasn’t hit full puberty yet, has he?”  Cooper understood more what Harry meant now about the boy’s body.  All athletes – or dancers in Cooper’s case – went through it.  It didn’t matter how talented or skilled you were when it came to your body aging.  In the end, it always fucked you over.

“Nope, not seriously.”  Harry told him as Yuri left the ice with a short program score that tied Viktor’s record from his Junior days, sending up another round of raucous applause through the arena.  “He’s grown only a couple inches since starting in Juniors at eleven.  But if you look when he gets out of his skates and stands up…”  Harry pointed, comparing how Yuri’s left hip was just a bit higher than his right in his mind.

“Oh.”  Cooper sat back.  “Huh.  The way he skated you’d never notice.”

“Mmm.”  Harry hummed under his breath, shrugging into his jacket now that he’d seen Yuri’s performance.  “It’s less than half an inch from what I can tell.  But he’s starting his growth spurts.  How fast and how much he’ll grow is hard to say.  But with that going on I’m not sure how well or how often he’ll compete next year.”  Harry chuckled, shaking his head.  “But if I know anything about that kid, it’ll be a lot more than his coach would prefer.”

“Good to know.”  Cooper turned his attention back to the Junior skater taking the ice as Harry wandered away.

…

“Good job, ice kitten.”  Harry teased the younger skater as he caught up to the Russian group as they – Yuri and Yakov, the older skaters all likely preparing or training or wandering around the city somewhere.  “How’s puberty treating you?”

“Smug bastard.”  Yuri hissed up at the taller skater.  “I found film of _you_ dealing with this you know.  Nice acne.”

“Little brat.”  Harry reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair.  “I guess you don’t want the gift I brought for you then…”

“Give it over.”  Yuri growled, snatching up the slim package and tearing into it as they made their way into the locker room.  His eyes lit up with greed at the sight of the expensive chocolate bar with the brown-and-gold _Honeydukes_ label.  The Thai midget had shared some with Mila at the GPF and the hag had horded and bragged over it like it was pure gold.  “Thank you.”  He said grudgingly as he tore off the wrapper and bit into it before Yakov could – attempt – to stop him.

“No problem.”  Harry laughed as the teenager scarfed down the treat.  “There’s a bigger one in it for you if you take first place, ice kitten.”  Turning to Yakov, Harry nodded coolly in greeting to the older man before turning and walking away, Yuri looking up long enough to give him a half-hearted wave.

“Hey, Yakov?”

“What, Harry?”  The coach asked, keeping his cool.  He didn’t want another repeat of the banquet playing on the five o’clock news.

“I talked to Lilia.  She’ll come to meet Yuri after Worlds.”  He said simply, not even pausing in his even steps.  As if he hadn’t just completely broken his former coach.  “He’ll need her help if he wants to be competitive next year.  Good luck, Yura.”

“I don’t need _luck_ asshole!”  Yuri shook a fist at the older skater’s back, though his voice was distinctly warmer than his words would suggest.  “Who the fuck is Lilia?”  Yuri asked his coach once the annoying Brit was gone, not having been around during the banquet when Yakov got into it with Harry.

“My ex-wife, Lilia Baranovskaya.”  Yakov grunted, still somewhat in shock that _Harry_ – not only was still in touch with Yakov’s ex-wife and Harry’s former ballet instructor – had called her and convinced her to come look at and possibly coach one of Yakov’s students _other_ than her grandson Viktor.  “The former _prima ballerina absoluta_ of the Bolshoi.”

Yuri looked up at him with a surprised gaze that turned calculating as his eyes swept up and down the balding and fat form of his coach.

“I _was_ Russia’s ice prince once _too_ , you brat!”  Yakov shouted, knowing what was going through his mind.  “I didn’t _always_ look like this you damn _teenager!_ ”

…

It was evil of Yuri, but he definitely enjoyed the pout on Viktor’s face when he found out that not only had Evans come to watch Yuri skate, but that he’d brought him a chocolate bar _and_ arranged for Yakov’s ex-wife to train him.

Though something about the ex-wife coming around put a strange expression on Viktor’s face…

Whatever.

Still, pouting Viktor was entertaining for about an hour before he got on Yuri’s last damn nerve, the younger boy kicking the grown man out of their shared room to go mope somewhere else…around someone who actually _cared_.

Yuri and Viktor had a strange almost-brotherly relationship, but a decent one all the same, so they tended to share even though the older skater could arrange his own room.

Viktor wouldn’t admit it when asked – and Yuri knew from Mila’s asking – but he looked out after Yuri a lot, including trying to help him with his skating.

What mattered the most to Yuri though, was the champion’s promise to choreograph a short program routine for Yuri if he won this year without using quad jumps.

With Yuri in the lead after the short programs, it was just a few more days and one more routine until he finally had a Nikiforov routine in his grasp – one that he was going to turn right around and kick Viktor’s ass with.

Snickering to himself, Yuri took a selfie of himself with the smoothed-out Honeyduke’s Finest wrapper, posting it on his Instagram.

Once Mila saw it, Viktor wouldn’t be the only one jealous…especially after the way she’d refused to share her’s with Yuri.

Revenge was indeed sweet.

…


	5. All That is Gold

** Make Me Feel Alive **

_Author’s Note: While Cooper’s character is physically running around Prague and watching routines/learning in this chapter, he doesn’t show up.  In this chapter and likely through the rest of the story, he might be mentioned but isn’t going to be present._

The title for this chapter is from a poem by J.R.R. Tolkien and included in _The Fellowship of the Ring:_

_“All that is gold does not glitter,_

_Not all those who wander are lost;_

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring;_

_Renewed shall be blade that was broken,_

_The crownless again shall be king.”_

I felt it was rather appropriate considering some of the themes explored both in YoI and this fic…

**Chapter Five: All That Is Gold...**

Tired from a day filled with practice and rehearsals for the Men’s Short Programs which began the day after next – which thanks to Harry’s draw during the opening ceremony he would be performing in the second-to-last group of the night, allowing him to sleep in at least a little – Harry wandered slowly through the hotel lobby towards the general direction of the bar for a quick dinner and a beer to unwind.  His family and his Viktor would be arriving in the afternoon tomorrow during the Women’s Short Programs, and would swallow up most of his day.  An early practice and work-out while avoiding Cooper and his latest lay was pretty much the sum total of his plans for the day before his next performance.

But best-made plans were meant to be wrecked, as Harry was reminded when he was hailed by a familiar voice near the lobby doors.

With Phichit and many of the other international skaters all getting ready for the Four Continents next week, only those from Europe had flooded into Prague and the official hotel, unless they happened to share a coach with a European skater so Harry hadn’t really expected to have anyone to hang out with until his family and Viktor arrived…since Cooper didn’t really count as _company_ to Harry.  More like an annoyance that he couldn’t leave behind lest his apartment become a STD-riddled hell-hole in his absence.  Any benefits or inspiration that his choreographer gained from watching the championships was purely incidental to Harry’s mind.

“Har _ry!_ ”

Though how Christophe was able to _purr_ his name from all the way across the lobby, he didn’t have the slightest idea.

Turning, Harry arched a brow in question as he wandered over to where the Swiss skater was waving at him, noticing that the older man wasn’t alone, but in the company of his avowed “bestie” Viktor Nikiforov, as was usually the case when the two men weren’t busy elsewhere during these events from what Harry could tell from their social media.

It had been an honest surprise to Harry when Christophe had introduced him to his boyfriend Theo at the GPF, before that he’d been convinced – along with most of the skating world for that matter who didn’t know about the skater and hockey player’s long term relationship – that there was _something_ going on between the Russian and Swiss champions.  Once he’d seen Chris with Theo, Harry had quickly realized that while Chris was an inveterate flirt, he was truly in love with his boyfriend.  But also, had come to the conclusion that while there wasn’t anything between Chris and Viktor _now_ , that that probably wasn’t always the case.  A supposition that likely would never be answered one way or another, as the two friends were ever tight-lipped about the rumors, in a stubbornly out-of-character move from both men who weren’t shy about talking to the press or their fans while still somehow keeping at least part of their private lives out of the public eye.

“You bellowed?”  Harry snarked as he met up with the two older skaters, who both snapped their eyes up to his face when he snapped his fingers next to his eyes.  “Eyes up here!”

Chris pouted and Viktor looked away with a light blush dusting his high, elegant cheekbones.

“Well when you dress like that around me you only have yourself to blame, muffin!”  Chris huffed, crossing his arms and raising his nose dramatically as Viktor lifted one hand and ruffled the back of his short silver-blond hair in silent agreement.

Not that either man really _believed_ that others should be ogled based on how they dressed, but when someone who _knew_ that Chris would be around and still ran around in tight leather trousers and clinging silk-shirts with a jacket that did more to emphasis his shoulders than hide the muscular expanse of his chest, they were nearly _begging_ for Chris to flirt, leer, and/or make a harmless pass at them.

Honestly, if Harry were one of the more vain skaters, he would’ve been offended if Chris _didn’t_ act like, well, _Chris_ instead of getting annoyed at the attention.

Viktor was just at a loss of how to deal with the entire situation full-stop.  With time and distance, he’d grown comfortable admitting – at least to himself – that he had a serious attraction to the younger man.  An attraction that he was very hesitant to act on due to the strange and ambiguous nature of Harry’s relationships with at least two – and possibly a third that had been seen in his company both in London and Prague according to current reports – other men.

Harry just rolled his eyes and started to turn away, Chris snagging him with an arm quickly looped around his trim waist.

“You’re not being a hermit this time, _petit ami_.”  Chris scolded him lightly.  “You’ve been hiding either with your people or alone in your room all season except for the party after the GPF.  We _know_ you’re good company now, you’ll never escape us.”  He teased, landing a smacking kiss to the younger skater’s lightly stubbled cheek.

His prey gave a soft sigh and let himself be towed along, not willing to give the paps a further show by fighting with the flamboyant man in the hotel lobby.

“Who’s all coming?”  He asked instead as Viktor fell in on Chris’s other side, the trio walking along with graceful strides from years of dance training for their skating routines.

“Oh, just us.”  Chris told him with a shrug.  “You’re lucky not to have a coach and team at times like this.  Viktor and I are well used to having to escape from them to get some peace and quiet instead of listening to the other agonize over how well they’ve done – or haven’t done – or them trying to puff themselves or each other up for routines they’ve yet to skate.”  Chris wrinkled his nose lightly as Viktor gave a similarly annoyed grimace.  “It’s tiring.  You’ll learn that next year if you decide to represent Britain in the Olympics.  Preferences or not, you’ll not be able to run from your country’s official team and coach and, and, and…”  Chris waved a hand as Harry groaned under his breath at that reminder of the rigmarole that comes hand-in-hand with the chance to win an Olympic medal.

But he’d only done it to himself – or he will rather.

The representation that his country will be able to send to the Men’s Single Figure Skating event at the Olympics will be largely based off of his performance and ranking this year along with a few of the other skaters from his home who compete on the international level.  If he – and they – do well enough then Britain will be able to send a full three-man team to South Korea to compete.

And with how high he’s ranked, most of that score for the full team will be compiled off of his wins.

There were a limited number of slots for each figure skating event, and the countries are allowed to choose who they want to send.  Not every country is guaranteed a slot either with the number of total slots being limited to thirty for the singles events, twenty for the pairs, and twenty-four for ice dancing, with a country able to claim up to three spots in the singles events depending on a ranking system configured around how their skaters performed and medaled the previous season.  Russia had been sending a full three-skater team to the Men’s event for years, as did Switzerland, Canada, and the U.S.A., but other countries who had qualified skaters usually only sent one or two.

Thanks to Harry, Britain might get one of the coveted three-man teams…which meant more people to hover and annoy him off the ice, since barring an injury, he was already the odds-on favorite to lead the Men’s team for Britain in South Korea.

“Thanks for reminding me, Chris.”  Harry said with dry sarcasm.  “Not to add any extra pressure to my performances here and at Worlds or anything…”

“No problem!”  The Swiss man chirped.  “Anyone have an idea of a good place to eat?  I don’t remember competing in Prague before.”

Viktor shrugged and Harry groaned, resisting – barely – the temptation to face-palm.  Turning down a street and tugging the clingy skater along with him, their quiet – unusually quiet at that, Harry wasn’t sure what that was about – Russian keeping step.

“You seriously dragged me from the hotel without a clue where we were going to eat?”  Harry groused, scowling over at the other men.

“It was his idea.”  Viktor threw his best-friend under the bus without hesitation at the sight of the irritation in glittering emerald eyes.  “We normally find a place that looks good and eat there in new cities if we’re not trapped in the hotel.”

Chris nodded with a beaming smile at Viktor’s explanation.  “We’ve found some of the best – and worst – places that way.”

“Well,” Harry held onto his patience with his fingertips.  “You don’t have to this time.  I’ve been to Prague before,” with both his Viktor and Lorcan when they were playing either a show or a match, but these two didn’t need to know that.  “I know a good place to eat…besides which.”  Harry arched a brow.  “Nekola is here...  Why wouldn’t you just ask him for a recommendation?”  He asked, referencing the Czech skater whose home territory was hosting the European Championships that year.

Chris and Viktor exchanged chagrined looks.

That hadn’t even crossed their minds.  Usually between the two of them, they’ll have an idea of where to go if they have the time to leave for a meal.  Besides which, a lot of the top skaters anymore were younger than them – sometimes by several years like Harry – and not yet close enough to the older pair who tended to dominate competitions to feel comfortable around them and vise-versa.  Harry was an exception for two reasons: one, Viktor was crushing on him _hard_ ; and two, he’d made the first move in throwing a party they were invited to.

Once they’d grabbed a table at the little bistro-type hole-in-the-wall Harry had led them to, and put in their orders with the nearly-silent waitress who mainly just stared at them until they read the menu and told her what they wanted so she could disappear back into the kitchen, Chris finally caved to Viktor’s puppy-dog-eyes and asked the question that had been bugging most of the competitors and their coaches around the championship…mainly because Harry was already dangerous and if the man hanging around him and the rink was who they _thought_ he was, the young Briton was about to becoming a whole lot more competitive.

“So Harry, you’ve hired a coach or something, yeah?”  Chris broached the issue with a knowing half-smile.  “Or is your American Lorcan’s replacement?

“Ewww.”  Harry made a disgusted face at the very notion of climbing into bed with Cooper.  “Gross, Christophe.  Now I have mental images and I can’t get rid of them…”

“That makes two of us.”  Viktor muttered darkly, eyeing his friend with loathing that quickly cleared when Harry continued to speak.

“I wouldn’t sleep with Cooper with _someone else’s_ body.”  He shook his head and gave a dramatic shudder of repulsion.  “He could be considered an STD all on his own.  No.  Cooper’s a choreographer.  He’s been staying and now traveling with me to get an idea for how skating works before we start really working on next season’s routines.”  He shrugged.  “It was either bring him and deal with the speculation or leave him in London and pray he didn’t turn my apartment into a den of orgies.”

“Aww, but that sounds fun…”  Chris laughed, though internally he was half-happy that the younger skater would be getting help from a professional for his new routines, and half-worried over how much _harder_ that was going to make next season…an Olympic season at that.

“I’m glad you’ve sought out whatever help you feel you need.”  Viktor told Harry with quiet sincerity.  “A choreographer will help smooth out some of the performance issues you were down-graded for at the GPF.”

Harry gave him an amused half-smile, undisturbed by Viktor’s blunt return to form.  Nikiforov was known to give good advice to younger skaters.   It just wasn’t very tactfully done in a lot of cases.

“Thanks – I think.”  He finally replied.  “But I didn’t seek out Cooper.  Lorcan dumped him on me as a _present_ following the Dublin Cup.  But since Lo’ is paying the bill, I’ll take advantage of having the walking-STD at my beck and call.”

Christophe gave a little whistle at the half-derisive and half-grudgingly-respectful tone the younger man consistently took whenever he talked about the choreographer.

“If you don’t like him…”  Viktor said slowly brows furrowed.  “Why accept his help?”

That made no sense to the Russian, in fact it went against everything he thought he knew about Harry from what he’d mined off of social media or from watching him during and after the GPF.

Harry shrugged then unbent enough to explain as the silent waitress dropped off their bowls plates with little fanfare, the older skaters taking in the mouth-watering scents of Kulajda, a creamy potato soup with mushrooms, dill, vinegar and a poached egg on top; as well as duck confit with sauerkraut and dumplings.  It wasn’t exactly a _light_ meal, but with competition the next day not one of them wouldn’t work off the calories.  And at least the kulajda was a small side-serving and not a massive bowl like what Harry had had last time when he’d been to the restaurant with _his_ Viktor.

“I don’t have to _like_ someone to take advantage of what they have to offer me.”  He told them drily, his “Slytherin” nature coming out to play.  Honestly, the Hat told him he would have done well in any of the Houses, it was only his insistence on staying close to his family rather than immediately diving into his skating career that had made the Hat settle on Hufflepuff for the Potter Heir.  “One of the biggest arseholes I’ve ever met in my life was my professor for seven years – he hated me, my godfathers, and my biological father and never let me or _anyone_ forget it.  But,” Harry held up a finger with a rueful half-smile.  “He _was_ and is a brilliant man and an excellent and exacting teacher who only accepts the best-of-the-best into his advanced program.  Believe me,” Harry rolled his eyes with a soft laugh as he thought of bitter Severus Snape who had only retired once he’d graduated and fulfilled his vow to Harry’s deceased mother.  “If I can deal with _him_ for seven years, I can deal with Cooper for less than a year if that’s what it takes to chip away at the little deductions the judges hit me with at the GPF.  I absolutely don’t have to like someone to learn from them.”

The two older skaters viewed him with fresh – but no less admiring – eyes after that explanation.  The cold and calculating reasoning didn’t _quite_ fit with the young and fresh image of an _honorable_ competitor Harry had routinely played up to both press and fans…but it _did_ match the slightly-vengeful personality that would set up an entire afterparty and have his on-again-off-again lover help him get blackmail on one of his own friends.  Viktor, if anything, found him _more_ compelling not less after getting a peek into the complex person that was Harry Evans – who clearly had a maturity not often found in younger men – even if they were professional athletes.  Perhaps even less so if they were at the professional level so young, fame and infamy that came hand-in-hand with professional contracts and sponsorships didn’t _exactly_ lend themselves to maturity, more often breeding arrogance or narcissism like it had done with JJ from Canada.

“Hmm.”  Was all Chris managed in response, Harry smirking a bit before digging into his soup, the only sounds being that of excellent food being consumed with the occasional _“Vkusno!”_ from Viktor as he all-but-tore into the duck confit, Chris with his Swiss palette being more accustomed to the treat due to being from a nation that had a diverse national identity which drew from the surrounding countries including France, was less easy to please, though he unbent enough to give a pleased hum every now and again, much to Harry’s entertainment.

Later after all the food had been destroyed and wine had been drunk, the trio wandered back towards their hotel, Harry at least needing to get back to meet up with his Viktor and family.

“So,” Chris once more took the reins of the conversation after a short but exasperating exchange of meaning-filled but fruitless glances with a stubbornly-silent Viktor who for _some_ reason seemed to have once again lost his tongue.  “You’ve gotten a choreographer – dumped in your lap or not – are you going to pick up a coach as well, my English muffin?”

“Not very English.”  Harry commented with good-humor.  And he wasn’t, really when you looked past the surface of his heritage.

According to what his dads knew about his mum’s family, the Evans’ had only moved to the Midlands because his grandfather was in charge of facilitating the shut-down of the mill – their original home was in Wales.  He’d been born in Godric’s Hollow, which rather than being located also in Wales was in the West Country of England – Cornwall, specifically.  Which was _also_ where the Peverells, the original wizarding line from which the Potter sprang, called home.  Complicating things even more, Harry’s paternal grandmother was a Black, who were Scottish in the main line, and he’d likewise grown up in the Highlands.  All of which made Harry strongly English – but just as strongly Welsh or Scot – all depending on what measure one used.

Christophe waved that off with his usual savoir-faire, paying Harry’s comment no mind.

“And no, to answer your question.”  Harry continued.  “I’m not.  I really don’t see the point of it.  Barring a major injury – or a massive scandal – I’ll make the Olympic Team next year and have to deal with _that_ coach.”  He shook his head with a grimace at the thought.  “I don’t really see the need to pour good money after bad when my country is willing to do it for me.”

After that, they kept it a lot lighter, talking about inconsequential things while Chris tried to sneakily divert Harry onto topics he knew Viktor was dying to learn more about – even if his Russian dumpling seemed to have misplaced his usual public-friendly persona.  Unfortunately, Chris couldn’t figure out a way to delicately bring up the topic of Harry’s apparent love-triangle, so other than getting confirmation that Cooper was his choreographer and _not_ more competition for the younger man’s affections, Viktor was either going to have to wait and see what popped up on social media – or _who_ popped up at the competition.  Or, in a very non-Viktor manner, just come out and _ask._

For an often-blunt person, Viktor was unusually shy when it came to Harry…likely because people tended to fling themselves at his head, not requiring any real effort on the part of the skating star – as Chris himself had learned to the detriment of their year-long affaire, Viktor simply had no experience in starting, let alone _maintaining_ an actual relationship instead of a simple fling.

Which left his friend floundering and Chris rather entertained, no matter that he also was struggling with competing urges to help Viktor out or leave him to muddle his way through on his own.

Harry genially asked after Theo, who wouldn’t arrive for another few days, being in Oslo currently for a game, giving Chris one last opportunity to help his best-friend as the hotel came into view.

“What about Lorcan, or your other friend?”  Christophe asked with carefully put-on idleness, Viktor’s crystal-blue eyes focusing laser-bright on Harry’s now lightly-blushing face.  “Who should I expect to keep me company tomorrow while cheering you on?”

“Viktor.”

“Yes?”  The Russian asked, a bit confused, confusion that didn’t lessen when Harry broke into bright, tinkling laughter.

“No,” Harry explained once his chuckles had calmed down.  “ _My_ Viktor, my friend, Viktor Krum.  He’s who’ll be here tomorrow and through the rest of the Championship.”

“Really?”  Chris arched his brows.  “Interesting coincidence.  Having a _friend_ also named like our Vitya.”

“Not really.”  Viktor himself commented regarding the commonness of his first name.  “Both spellings of Victor/Viktor are rather common names.  And given the family name of Harry’s friend, he’s also from a Slavic country, making it even _more_ common than it is in English-language-dominant countries.”

“Then…”  Chris asked, drawling the question.  “Is your Viktor a Vitya as well?  Or does he prefer a different diminutive?”

Slavic diminutives can be complicated and frustrating to non-native speakers, especially those from non-Slavic countries who don’t understand the non-spoken rules of which diminutives are appropriate for which people to use.  _Vitya_ was probably the most common diminutive of Viktor/Victor, and also the least familiar.  But there were still nearly a dozen more that were widely known, with others that were regional.

“Mmm.”  Harry hummed under his breath in agreement, thinking a moment.  “Sometimes.  Myself and his teammates usually prefer Vit’ka…though I use it a little differently than they do.”

“More affectionate from you, yeah?”  Viktor supplied for Chris’s enlightenment…as well as to appease his own curiosity.  That Harry used Vit’ka instead of some of the other closer diminutives gave Viktor _some_ hope that his relationship with _his_ Viktor wasn’t as, well, _passionate_ as his relationship with d’Eath clearly was.  From that little bit alone, it seemed that neither Krum or d’Eath was a real relationship for Harry, very much lending to the running-assumption many of his fellow skaters had that they were more along the lines of friends-with-benefits, especially given that Harry is seen interchangeably with both men, and Lorcan is _very_ often seen with groupies.  “Georgi calls me Vit’ _ka_ when he’s frustrated with me.”  He answered the question implied by the look Chris shot him, emphasizing an almost-mocking tone on the _‘ka_.  “It’s used most often as a between-boys type of diminutive.”

“That’s right.”  Harry nodded, then smiled as they cleared the paparazzi and entered the hotel, his eyes easily finding the muscled form of the man in question.  “Speaking of the devil…”  Harry waved at his Viktor then said a brief goodbye to the two older skaters.

Chris snorted and rolled his eyes as he watched fire flash in Vitya’s eyes, followed by a sense of smug vindication when after a moment it became clear that the Russian’s earlier assumption was correct – whatever was between Harry and Krum, it was much _mellower_ than the wildfire that burned between Harry and d’Eath, giving Viktor hope yet that he might have a shot with the younger man…if he could ever figure out a way to go after him without needing a constant buffer…

“You really _are_ hopeless, my scrumptious Russian gingerbread.”  Chris shook his head with a put-upon sigh and snagging Viktor by the belt towed him away from the hotel lobby when it seemed like all he’d do was stand there and glare at the less-attractive dark-haired Viktor who was currently throwing an arm around the object of his friend’s affections and leading him off elsewhere into the hotel.  “Utterly _hopeless_.”

…

Harry watched as Viktor climbed out of bed, tugging the sheet up to cover his naked and sweat-glistened body, holding it in place with his curled arm as he propped himself on his side, too-awake eyes fixed on his friendly-lover’s form despite the round of vigorous sex they’d both enjoyed.

Viktor had been much more… _more_ , Harry supposed, than normal.

They had always enjoyed athletic sex between the two of them, ever since their friendship of three years had bloomed into a field of “something more” the previous year when Harry became “legal” in wizarding Great Britain.

Granted, their liaisons tended to be more regular than those with Lorcan – which was an affair that had _not_ limited itself to matters of legality, starting not long after Harry’s sixteenth birthday – as while neither of his dads really _approved_ of Harry’s cavalier approach to relationships following his disastrous first attempt at such when he was a younger teen, they at the _least_ liked the Quidditch star better than the damphir.  As a mated pair from a young age, his dads honestly _couldn’t_ understand how Harry had chosen to manage his love-life thus far.  And that was okay.  They still supported him and loved him, even if they didn’t understand him.  That _didn’t_ however, stop them from favoring one of his “suitors” as they liked to pretty it up, over the other.

Favored him enough to turn a blind-eye to Viktor’s accommodations always seeming to end with him in Harry’s room whenever the other athlete showed up to one of Harry’s competitions or stayed over at his penthouse, where they did everything in their power to make _Lorcan_ as uncomfortable as possible, Siri’s business partner or no.

Which in fact probably played a part in his dads’ discomfort, if him being an aged damphir wasn’t enough on its own.

Viktor padded over to his discarded clothes, slipping into his boxers with the simple ease of having done so in Harry’s presences more than a dozen times before in hotels or bedrooms all over the globe, if not as often as his half-vampire lover had done.

Lorcan and Harry might not see each other as _easily_ or openly (normally) as Viktor and Harry, but what they lacked in simplicity they more than made up in frequency, the damphir having a much easier time of popping ‘round to see Harry when the mood struck him as a musician and businessman than Viktor did as a professional athlete and minor nobleman’s son.

The Quidditch star continued on to his destination once he’d covered his bits from the nippy hotel air conditioning, filling a glass with ice from the spelled-cold bucket and topping it with the Firewhiskey the Bulgarian had brought along with him, muggle booze not doing much for the pair of highly-magical athletes with their both magically and naturally enhanced metabolisms.

“Why did that feel like a goodbye, Vit’ka?”  Harry asked him softly when it appeared the other wizard was content to stand facing the tall windows overlooking Prague and sip on his drink.

It had been as athletic and drawn-out as usual, lasting hours more than a less-healthy couple could manage, but still…there had been a tinge of near-desperation in Viktor’s kisses and frantic tinge to his touches.

Odd, to say the least, from a lover that had always been fun and methodical rather than the innate passion and furor that made up Harry’s bouts with Lorcan that were half as much fighting as they were fucking.

“Because it is.”  Viktor admitted, at last turning and facing his friend and lover with sorrow-filled eyes.  Viktor closed his dark eyes, shaking his head a moment as he cursed himself for saying so much as a word.  He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let on, not in the least, until the championship was over.  He didn’t want to distract Harry.  And that was exactly what he told him now, finishing with: “…my father’s finally followed through on his threats.  My marriage has been arranged, unless I can present him with a suitable alternative by the end of the Quidditch Season.”

Harry pressed his lips tight together, not willing to touch _that_ with a ten-foot-pole.

He hadn’t been willing to give up skating for _Lorcan_.

He wasn’t about to do it because Branislav Krum was tired of waiting for his Quidditch-playboy-son to stop chasing tail and pop out the next Krum Heir.

Though Harry would readily admit that Rome’s birth had taken the ability for his Dad to pressure him the same way as Branislav was Viktor, and with having the former Potter-Lord being deceased, there was no one but himself to answer to as far as a Potter Heir was concerned.

“One last weekend together, yeah?”  Harry said with an expectantly-arched brow.

Viktor gave a weak chuckle.  That wasn’t the response he truly _wanted_ , but if he knew one thing about Harry it was that the younger wizard wasn’t about to give up on what he wanted for _anyone_ , let alone someone he saw always as a friend first and a lover second.  Theirs wasn’t a grand passion or sweeping love.  It was the fondness of shared interests and the warm comfort of a casual – but kind – lover.  Nothing more, nothing less.  It would have been a grand match for the Krum family…which was likely what had kept his father at bay this last year, despite threats to the contrary.

But it _wouldn’t_ be a good match for Harry, even Viktor could admit that much, no matter that he’d had _hopes_ otherwise.

“Of course.”  Viktor agreed, then knocked back the rest of his drink and striding for the bed and the smirking form of Harry.

If he only had these last few days with Harry, then by Veles he was going to make the most of it.

…

Later that night, while Viktor was deeply asleep with a slight frown furrowing his brows, Harry put in a late call to Paris.

“Lo’?  It’s me.  I need you to change the arrangement for my exhibition piece for the Gala.  Why?”  Harry glanced over at the scratch marks marring Viktor’s sun-kissed back and the worry that never seemed to quite dissipate from his face.  “Let’s just say I’ve had a burst of inspiration…”

…

Rome made himself comfortable on his brother Harry’s lap as the small family plus Viktor settled in to watch the last round of competitors take the ice for the Short Programs.

Harry’s work had paid off, netting him another personal best that was currently soaring at the top of the leader board, but several other top skaters had yet to compete, including his dinner companions of the previous evening, Viktor and Christophe.  As things stood, Harry was currently holding strongly onto first with just over a four-point lead above Emil – the top Czech skater – and Micky Crispino from Italy.  His own countrymen Jonny Reece and Ian Parry had also made the top half of the leader board, but weren’t in position to make the top ten barring a serious foul-up from one of the leaders, with other Brits trailing further back.  Harry had known that both were likely contenders for the British Olympic Team next year, having skated against both of them earlier in the year at the British Nationals, Jonny being young enough to have also competed against Harry in the Juniors while Ian was old enough that next year – barring injury – would likely be his last go at an Olympic medal.

“How’s the competition looking, little wolf?”  Harry asked Rome as he jiggled his knees a bit to make his brother laugh, the skaters and their families/teams around them watching with varying degrees of amusement.

“No problem, big broder.”  Rome chirped, netting more than a few laughs from their audience as the ice was finally readied for the next group.  “Yay!  Viktor!”  He cried when the lights changed to indicate the next round of programs.

“Yes, yes.”  Harry sighed, digging his fingers into the metamorphmagus’s ribs, his ability blocked for the moment via an enchanted bracelet.  Rome hated the thing, it made him itchy at times when his emotions were high and the enchantment had to activate to suppress his ability.  But it was necessary until the little wizard gained enough control over his ability to not randomly turn his hair bright blue when he was happy or black when upset.  “We all know who your favorite it, little wolf.  No loyalty…”  Harry shook his head in mock-mourning over the ‘betrayal’.  “No loyalty at all.”

“Aww,” Rome turned on Harry’s lap and threw his arms around his older brother’s neck.  “I love you the bestest, big broder!  Promise!”

Harry laughed and gave one chocolate-streaked cheek – someone had been making liberal usage of puppy-eyes on Harry’s contemporaries and their dads – a smacking kiss.

“He’s middle of the pack, I think.”  Harry told Rome after a minute when the first skater – Chris – took the ice.  “And _that_ ,” he shook his head at his dads and Viktor who made to get up with him as he packed Rome off towards the lobby restrooms.  “Is our cue to go take a potty break, little wolf.”

“Why don’t you ever let me watch your funny friend skate?”  Rome asked with the slightest tinge of suspicious petulance in his tone.  “I thought you liked him?”

“I do like Christophe.”  Harry told him honestly as he stood watch over the bathroom stall as Rome did his business.  “But you need to be a little older before you watch him skate.  Just…trust me, okay little wolf?”

“Okay, Harry.”  Rome agreed after coming back out and seeing the serious look on his brother’s face.  “I will.”

Harry chivvied the young metamorphmagus over to the sinks to wash his hands, his internal clock telling him it should be safe once more to retake their seats and watch the rest of the final group of skaters go through their short programs.

The next skater – not Viktor – was coming onto the ice after the sweepers had cleared all the toys and flowers that had rained down on Chris’s head when they made it back out to their seats.  Harry had miraculously kept Rome occupied with a simple word game, keeping the young boy from darting over towards the concession stands with their tempting offerings of yet more chocolate.  Passing his brother over to his seat between their dads, Harry automatically lifted his head to the leader board as he took his seat, smiling brightly when he saw Chris come in second behind him but ahead of Emil who was currently holding onto third place after Chris’s short program.

Which knowing Viktor, meant that the two of them were likely to be his ‘group buddies’ for the Free Skate, unless one of the more unknown skaters managed to skate an outstanding program, which was rare but not unheard of, as Harry’s own showing this year had proved.

At his side, his Viktor muttered something about the bathrooms then rose, hurrying away a bit hunched, Harry’s return with Rome having interrupted what looked like a tense exchange between the Quidditch star and his dads, who usually got along quite well…well, as well as his dads were going to get along with anyone out to “sully their pup’s pure innocence” as Dad Siri had put it when Harry started dating in third year.

“What happened?”  Harry asked, pitching his voice low to keep under the radar of the more gossipy skaters within earshot.

If it was over what he _thought_ it might be, then the least said in public the better.

“Dunno.”  Siri shrugged, turning to glance at Viktor’s back before turning his gaze back to the ice.  “He just got a bit tense when I asked if he’d be coming to stay after the season or not this year.”

“The season” in this case meaning the professional Quidditch season, which has a break in August and September before training and matches start back up.  Last year Viktor had joined them for a week in the Caribbean at one of the Black retreats for a week – which was all they were able to convince Harry to stay since he had a qualifier for the Junior Nationals and then the Nationals themselves right after the mini-vacation.

“Mmm.”  Harry hummed, looking away when Papa Remus arched a brow at him.

The Animagus and werewolf may _pretend_ that they were normal blokes – and carried it off most of the time – but Harry never really forgot all the times his Papa busted him during his more rebellious stages of growing up over one thing or another because he could smell it on him.  The guilt if nothing else.  And Merlin knows, as his Harry from listening to his dads complain, _angst_ has a scent.

“Tell you later.”  Harry said absently as his eyes locked with laser-focus on the ice and Rome jumped up in Remus’s lap to cheer.

Viktor Nikiforov had skated out onto the ice, skating fourth in the last group, putting him just in to the middle of the pack as Harry had said.

Christophe had at last freed himself of reporters and swapped out his skates for street shoes, plopping down behind Harry’s family next to Theo, ruffling both Harry and Rome’s hair as he went, cheering on Viktor who turned and gave their group a bright smile, which widened – for some reason – when those ice blue eyes locked on Harry’s little family, absent one Bulgarian.  Viktor’s best-friend held in a snort, too thoroughly amused at the obliviousness of Harry and the bumbling-nature – thus far – of Viktor’s interest to want to give away the game, though strangely he got shot questioning looks by who he recognized as Harry’s dads, not realizing that they smelled his rampant amusement which didn’t fit with the current situation in any way.  No, Chris was _entirely_ getting too much enjoyment out of watching Viktor have to _work_ for something other than a medal for the first time in the other man’s life to want to enlighten Harry – or anyone else – just _why_ Viktor was so incandescent over seeing Harry without one of his ‘friends.’

Harry arched a brow, leaning forward in avid interest the same as many of the other skaters male and female around him, as Viktor launched into his _Requiem for a Dream_ program.  By the time the first half was over, Harry let out a little sigh of defeat and sat back against the stadium seat.  Whatever _spark_ had lit in Viktor and caused him to churn out a gold-medal Free Skate at the GPF, it was still burning brightly in the Russian Prince, giving new life to the short program that previously Harry had defeated with his own _I Dream a Dream_.

Remus – the more educated of his dads on figure skating and the scoring involved, though Sirius wasn’t as clueless as he often liked to pretend – patted him gently on the knee in consolation, having spotted the same small differences in performance and the lack of errors in the technique.

Barring a major flub, Viktor would go into the Free Skate ahead of Harry in first place.

“Ah, Vitya.”  Chris moaned in commiseration with his fellow skaters, many of whom watched the Russian both for pure enjoyment, he _was_ a delight to watch as a skater and so handsome with it; as well as for using him as a benchmark to measure themselves against.  “Back to denying the masses hope once more.”

“Evans knocked him out of the top spot once.”  Emil commented, kicking back as Viktor landed his final jump flawlessly.  “So have you for that matter.  It could be done again.”

“True.”  Chris gave a mue with his lips then rose with a sigh as the score came in, many of those around him doing the same.  Their assumption had been proven right, Viktor had edged Harry out of first with a season-best score for his short program.  “Well, off to face the circus once more.”

“Ta.”  Harry waved him off, watching as the Swiss skater passed Harry’s Viktor, the Bulgarian only marginally in a visibly better mood.  “Well, little wolf.”  Harry turned to Rome.  “What say you?  Stay here and watch the last few skaters or go back to the hotel for dinner?”

“Mac’n’cheese!”  Rome cheered, jumping off Remus’s lap and waving his Union Jack flag, making the newly returned Viktor chuckle and scoop him up and onto his shoulder, having heard his soon-to-be-former lover’s query and the little one’s answer.  “Mac’n’cheese, mac’n’cheese!”

“I think we have an answer, pup.”  Siri clasped one hand on Harry’s shoulder in commiseration over the however-possibly-temporary loss, the three adults already working on gathering up their things as Viktor set to work keeping Rome entertained.

…

** Back on Top? **

**At the end of the European Championships’ battery of short programs, we end the final day of the SP’s with the reigning-champions from Russia, Viktor Nikiforov and Yuri Plisetsky back on the top of the hundreds of skaters who have swarmed into Prague to participate in one of the three major ISU-sanctioned events of the skating season.**

**Perhaps the best description of the sudden vibrancy that had been previously missing from a technically-golden short program from Nikiforov has been by none other than Nikiforov’s newest competition, the eighteen-year-old Harry Evan from Britain, who has the distinction of being one of the few skaters in recent years to have gained a lead on the Russian Prince, though he lost, taking silver at the GPF just a few short weeks ago.  As Evans’ had put it in a caption for _this photo_** **taken during Nikiforov’s Free Skate at Sochi, “Someone woke up the sleeping Prince.”  And indeed, that is the feeling many of those involved in the sport are getting.**

**A skater in his mid-twenties, there have already been rampant rumors – largely attributed to the champion’s choice of music and programs this year – that skating’s beloved Russian Ice Prince might be considering retirement, rumors given substance via Viktor’s lovely-but-somehow-lacking performances leading up to the Grand Prix Final.**

**The question on many people’s lips – fans and critics alike – is what has changed?**

**And more importantly…will it last?**

**For more information, click _here_.**


	6. Six

** Make Me Feel Alive **

_A/N: The title for this chapter comes from a Martin Luther quote: “…every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of silver or gold.”_

_I also am having a bit too much fun coming up with new pet-names every chapter for Christophe to use.  This chapter we have Apfelküchlein, which is a kind of deep-fried apple donut/cookie thing from Switzerland._

_Also, the nightclub referenced in the last portion of the story is a copy of a club here in Seattle with the same name._

**Six – More Glorious Than…Silver or Gold**

Viktor found himself wandering in aimless loops through the hotel in the hours after he took first place for the short programs at the European Championship, missing his wonderful dog and constant-companion Makkachin more than he could say as thoughts tumbled through his mind.  Chris was tucked away with Theo, and Yuri simply too young to understand, leaving Viktor no one but the walls to bounce his thoughts off of.  A dangerous thing for a man who tended to avoid things like introspection at all cost.

His coach Yakov told him constantly that he was selfish or an airhead because he preferred to focus on the few things he easily understood, like smiling for the crowds of fans or perfecting his routines.

What did Viktor know of emotional things?

Orphaned young and then taken in by a woman he’d never met that claimed to be his grandmother, it had been far too easy to push aside messy things like grief and anxiety for the steady swish-swish of skates on ice or the plastic smiles that made girls and boys alike swoon but didn’t require anything of him.

He’d been right, when he’d decided that Harry Evans was _interesting_.

The dilemma Viktor faced _now_ was determining how much _mess_ and discomfort that interest was worth…and if Viktor was willing to pay the price, whatever it ended up being, of sating his curiosity over the younger man.

That Viktor felt comfortable dubbing Harry a man rather than a boy like he did many of the other skaters in Harry’s same age group was one of many interesting things about him.

Viktor likely could have wandered around for hours more, lost in his thoughts and spinning himself in circles over the dilemma of the seemingly-involved (and therefore unavailable) Harry Evans, had he not been pulled from his reverie by the sound of hushed voices coming from around one of the nearby corridors.  Glancing around, he realized he’d wandered all the way up to the more expensive suites, suites that Yakov refused to pay for – or allow his skaters to squander their money on – when there were perfectly serviceable options at hand for less money.  Viktor probably would have made his presence known – and unknown to him those he was about to eavesdrop on would have been aware of it long before he got close enough to do so – if it weren’t for the topic under discussion.

More to the point, the same topic which Viktor had been contemplating himself, leading him to realize from the verbiage and familiarity used, that it was Harry’s fathers he was eavesdropping on…which only made him more inclined to stay and listen, not less, Viktor having more than a fair-share of both canine-like curiosity and a healthy serving of cunning.

He wasn’t afraid to take advantage when said advantage is handed to him on a silver platter.

And with the bag of dried apple chips in his hand he’d snagged from a vending machine sometime before, he had a ready-made excuse for what he was doing wandering around, since in his experience, the higher the floor number the better the snacks found in the little kitchen areas.

Though granted, with rooms as nice as the ones on this floor, the snacks were likely _gratis_ instead of being out of a machine, but they were likely still nearly the same if not identical to those found for sale on the lower floors of the hotel.

Fortune had also favored Viktor in another way: both of the men were speaking a language he understood, which was not always the case when the Russian traveled, and all evidence pointed towards Harry being multilingual like many people from Europe, Asia, or South and Central America.

Thus far, Viktor had personally seen/heard the Briton speak both English and French, Harry easily keeping up with native-French-speaker Christophe and himself during their dinner, and Yuri had told him he’d heard “that British idiot and his muscle-bound mountain” speaking in what the younger man thought was maybe Bulgarian but could have been Macedonian since the two sounded similar but were different languages.

With a son who spoke at least three languages, it wasn’t a foregone conclusion that his fathers would be speaking one that Viktor understood, but they were speaking in their native English, a language Viktor was nearly as fluent in as he was French from years of travelling and using English as it was generally understood everywhere and much more common than his own native Russian.

Viktor was very obviously coming into the middle of the men’s discussion, which left him a bit at sea for a moment before he realized the exact topic of conversation than it merely being something to do with their son.

“…he’s really ok?”  Viktor heard the smoother-voiced one ask.

“Do _you_ think he’s ok, Pads?”  The one with a hint of an ever-present growl shot back, Viktor almost able to hear the smirk in the man’s tone.

“Aw, don’t do that Moons.”  The other one, Pads – which in no way could be the man’s actual name the same with Moons – groaned.  “Not right now.  Seriously.  He and Krum have been shagging what?  A year, almost two?  You _really_ think that they didn’t develop _any_ deeper feelings in all that time?”  A snort.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”  Pads’ tone turned smug.

“I’m not saying _that_.”  Moons corrected the impression Pads had of being in the right, if Viktor understood the byplay as he leaned against the wall around the corner from the two talking lowly.  He was propped in such a way that if they were paying attention they’d see him – but they weren’t completely focused on their discussion.  “But they were friends for years before a one-off became a series of one-offs mixed with going to each other’s matches and competitions.”

“Or visiting their families.”

“Or visiting each other’s families.”  Moons – who had sandy-colored hair and eyes that had an unusual hint of gold to them – nodded once in agreement before continuing on.  “Which is probably why old man Krum gave Viktor until the end of the season instead of going through with arranging a match for him immediately.”

Pads gave another snort, his sleek black hair swaying in its club.  “Old man Krum has been licking his lips this whole time at the chance of having our pup in his family and getting his paws on his inheritance.”  The ebony-haired man had his back to Viktor, but he was willing to bet that if he could see the other man’s face it would be marred by a sneer.  “As if our pup would be willing to just hand it over to him.”

“True enough.”  Moons sighed, shrugging lightly then wrapping his arms around his husband’s shoulders, arching a brow as he looked up once his cheek was resting against ebony hair and he caught sight of their eavesdropper, his next words clearly just as much for the Russian as they were for his husband.  “We can only hope that the next bloke our Harry takes up with actually manages to pry him away from that leech d’Eath, the way Krum failed to.”

Viktor smirked, tilting his head to the side in acknowledgement as the man shifted and guided his now-muttering-profanities husband further down the hall and out of his earshot.

Message received.

So…he mused to himself.  Harry’s mountainous lover had suddenly become _unavailable_ or would be soon.  Viktor chuckled to himself, popping another piece of apple in his mouth an sauntering away back towards his room, mood lifted and thoughts cleared – for the moment.

And apparently, Viktor himself had an implicit okay from at least one of his fathers to pursue the younger man.

Better and better.

Though…he frowned.  How the other man even _knew_ he was interested in his son was beyond him.

And would remain a mystery for some time, before an explanation of werewolves – and all they were capable of scenting out – was explained to him.

…

Yuri Plisetsky couldn’t hold it in anymore, he really couldn’t.

That he’d held his tongue _at all_ would have been deemed a miracle in itself if Yakov or any of his rinkmates were around…which they weren’t and thank god.

Several days had passed since the Short Programs had concluded, and Yuri had once again been crowned as the European Champion the night before, and been gifted with a brick of chocolate from Evans that was a solid two pounds before deciding to follow said-skater to the small practice rink across the city where the idiot Brit had been hiding for the last couple days unless he was sitting in on the Junior Free Skate programs with his family and even-more-idiotic choreographer.

Not that Evans had _said_ that this was where he’d been hiding but Yuri wasn’t a total tool like others in the skating world.

He could put the pieces together without needing someone to draw it out for him in crayon, the way Mila or Yakov or god-forbid Yuri had to do with Vitya at times.

Thankfully, so far this _wasn’t_ one of those times.

Other than being a creepy-stalker over the Brit’s social media pages, Vitya hadn’t _yet_ done anything to make himself look like a total asshat…though Yuri honestly thought it was just a matter of time.

Evans wasn’t some rink-twink or trophy-girl, he was a major competitor who already had a prima-donna on his hands in that ridiculous Frenchman.

Vitya was _so_ going to crash and burn… _hard_.

Yuri was looking forward to it a little…okay _a lot_.

Mostly because he honestly thinks it’ll do Vitya some good to have his ego deflated a bit in preparation for next season when Yuri _kicks his conceited ass_ on the ice.

But currently, what was bugging the ever-living-fuck out of Yuri, was the routine Evans had been working on for better part of the last couple hours.  For the most part he’d been content to sit and watch, he had the rest of the championship free of pressure to either compete or practice, and watching one of who was about to be _his_ main competition work on a routine wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon.  Except that other than a quick run-through of his _Shatter Me_ performance, Evans was working on something else _entirely._

It wasn’t his exhibition piece – or if it was it was an incomplete on that he was still trying to fine-tune.

Yuri had seen him perform _that_ to an eighties song Mila had told him was called _Magic Man_ more than once over the season from watching film to try and get ideas for next season when he moved up.

But it _had_ to be an exhibition piece – or Evans was just fucking around on the ice – due to the inclusion of an illegal move i.e. one where his skates end up going over in his head but it wasn’t a backflip.

Really, Yuri wasn’t quite sure _what_ it was until he flipped out his phone and types in what he saw into the search bar, arching a brow at the videos that popped up.

Evans must have studied gymnastics, then…interesting.

What had Yuri ready to commit murder however, was the sheer _angst_ of the routine.  He couldn’t hear the music playing on the other skater’s iPod, but he just _knew_ it was some sappy shit.  Ew.  Just Ew.

Yuri would never understand why the old people around him insist on subjecting him to so much damn emotional bullshit.

The next time when Evans came over to the wall to take a break and grab some water, Yuri yanked out one of his ear buds, glaring up at him from the one eye not covered by his hair.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole?”  He demanded.  “What the fuck are you doing?  You should be practicing your Free Skate if you want to have a shot in hell at beating Viktor, dickhead.”

“I will.”  Harry told him mildly with a brow arched in amusement at the lecture coming both from Viktor’s rink-mate and fellow countryman, as well as a tiny teenager with a smear of chocolate in the corner of his mouth making the “Ice Tiger” look even more like a kitten than normal.  “But if I don’t have it down by now, skating until my feet bleed isn’t going to help me at this point.”  He studied the other teen for a moment then added: “Besides which, I’ve found that if I don’t spend the days leading up to performances practicing the same two routines until I want to kill myself from overwork then they tend to be fresher and score better with the judges because I’m not as sick of doing the same shit over and over again to polish them.”  He shrugged.  “I do most of my polishing between events and during the off-season.  Just making minor adjustments as I go depending on who I’m skating against and where I’m at on the leader board.  I deviated from that in Sochi…and I lost so I’m trying to keep myself from obsessing over my routine this time and work on other things to keep my mind busy.”  Like the weird limbo he was in right now with Viktor Krum and having his dads aware of the nominal “end” of their non-relationship agreement…thing.

Yuri was a bit flummoxed.

He’d never heard of a skater doing that before, devoting the precious last-minute time to only minor tweaks and working on other things like jumps – or weird-ass-angsty-bullshit – before a competitive performance.

“Soo…”  Yuri frowned, searching for the merest shred of tact that his grandfather Kolya swore he possessed.  Deep down.  Deep _deep_ down.  “What are you working on instead?  Not your exhibition piece?”

Skaters stuck to the same short and free skate programs for a season, almost never changing one or the other out for a different routine if one just isn’t working.

Exhibitions were different, many times a skater would have a repertoire of two or three that they used consistently as the mood strikes them, or that they use for multiple seasons.

From what Yuri had been able to dig up on the internet about Evans, he tended to stick with the same exhibition piece for a year then change for the next year, the same as he did with his competition pieces, which made Yuri think that maybe he was already working on the exhibition piece for next year – since he wouldn’t need a choreographer to help with that since it wasn’t scored, and from what Yuri had seen of his routines this year, he could clearly create his own unique programs.

“Tinkering with a new exhibition piece.”  Harry shrugged, not wanting to go any further into it than that.  “ _Magic Man_ is good, but I can do better.”  The only problem being that Harry didn’t want to reveal his full repertoire of abilities until after the Olympics next year.

Some skaters took off for the Olympics, focusing all their energy onto that one event so that their routine are sparkling fresh for the judges.

That wasn’t Harry’s plan.

No, he wanted to be able to show off moves they’ve never seen him perform either in competition, exhibition, or even a jump contest or similar show, which meant sandbagging his routines _this_ year and the beginning of next year…at least a little bit.

At least one of his planned jumps for the Olympics needed a _lot_ more work before he felt confident he wouldn’t fuck it up by over or under rotating it in performance.

“Well, it’ll be flashy enough, that’s for sure.”  Yuri gave a little laugh, biting off and quickly chewing and swallowing another piece of chocolate while Yakov wasn’t around to stop him.  “How can you do moves like that and mess up a quad salchow?”  He asked with honest – if too-blunt – confusion.

“Physics.”  Harry sighed, not offended at the younger skater’s question but more at the things he couldn’t control in his chosen sport…like his body type and the repercussions it had on his technical score.  “You wouldn’t realize it because you’re built like a pencil still…”  Harry teased him, reaching out and messing up Yuri’s hair to much hissing, growling, and swatting at his hand.  “But relearning jumps as you age isn’t just about your muscles and tendons, etc. It’s _also_ about your body’s shape and how that relates to the gravitational pull of doing more difficult jumps…like quads.”

“What do you mean?”  Yuri frowned, still upset over the hair-fuckery but willing to ignore it to have an actual explanation over why so many of the older skaters seemed to have problems with something he could do easily.

“Look it’s like this.”  Harry leaned forward on the wall.  “To be able to jump like we do takes a lot of strength for height and a lot of spin speed right, right?”

“Um…yeah…so…”

“So,” Harry arched a brow, waving a hand to his frame with much-broader shoulders than Yuri’s own slim and lean one.  “I have the strength, there’s no doubt about that.  But because of my build, I have to use more of my core to correct for my broader shoulders.  I don’t naturally get as fast of a spin as you do because of my build.  And I have more muscle mass – I’m heavier, which when we land with seven-times the force of our normal weight means a much-larger impact on my joints and body coming down than what you have to deal with.”

Yuri grimaced.  He’d never thought about it that way.  Never considered the science behind the sport the way that Evans obviously had.  Which since Yuri had completed only the bare-minimum requirements to get released from the mandatory education years in Russia, made sense.  Before he hadn’t wanted to know _why_ his jumps worked so well, he was just happy that they did once he’d been taught the correct form.

“I’ll never have a tano in my repertoire for competition.”  Harry continued quietly, watching with patient eyes as Yuri digested what Harry had to tell him.  As the younger skater finally _understood_ what everyone was so worried about when it came to him going through puberty and how it might affect his career if he wasn’t willing to stop and retrain.  “Not ever.  And yes, I can do tricks and acrobatic moves all day.”  Harry waved a hand idly.  “Those are easy.  Trying to convince my _body_ that it’s slimmer and lighter?  That it’s physically capable of what I’m demanding of it to compete at our level?  Now _that_ shit is hard.”

…

Back at the hotel, Harry wasn’t the only one struck by a sudden wave of inspiration and in need of a bit of assistance.

Thumbing through his contacts, Viktor smiled when he saw the number he’d been looking for, as catching sight of Harry’s new choreographer had given him an idea…and he knew _just_ who to ask to help him get his hands on the arrangement and film he’d need to make it work.

At the least…he’d end up with a unique routine for his short program next year.

“Sasha?  It’s Viktor Nikiforov.  I need to call in that favor…”

…

“I suppose with everything coming next year we’ll be lucky to see hide or hair of you, pup.”  Sirius commented as he and Harry watched Chris perform his free skate several days after Remus had noticed a _particular_ person eavesdropping on their conversation regarding their son and Krum.

It had only been Remus’s insistence that the older Viktor had smelled of warring scents of curiosity, desire, and confusion that had kept Sirius from hexing him into oblivion…or at least hitting him with an _Obliviate._ The backbiting that went on in professional sports, trying to embarrass each other or knock each other down, had always been Sirius’s least favorite part of his pup getting involved in such a career from an early age.  Well, that and the massive commitment of time and energy it was for the two-or-so decades that usually comprised the early training and then active career of a professional skater anyway.  Harry had always had a… _sweetness_ that boggled the mind when he considered that neither his parents nor him and Moony were every really known for possessing such a trait.  Sirius hadn’t wanted it spoiled and his pup brokenhearted by the world of figure skating.

Perhaps it was because of the family he’d been born into, but Sirius, Lord Black, was all too good at sniffing out the seamy underbelly of any situation.

And Merlin knew, figure skating had one in spades, glossed over in the public eye by glittering costumes and gleaming medals.

Many were the young souls who ended up with broken bodies before their time from massive injuries – or even just the sheer demands that the ever-increasing difficult jumps and tricks demanded to stay competitive put on the body.  More were those who decided to – like the young and upcoming skater from Russia who his pup called Kitten – skip things like formal education to increase their ability to focus solely on skating, creating adults who had no idea of even the most basic of educational demands for a good career post-skating…if they didn’t end up champions.  And of those who didn’t break early and ended up champions?  Well.  The toll that the public eye and the “perks” of fame could take on a young person were well documented right alongside the likelihood of drug addiction, alcoholism, and a series of shallow relationships due to the lack of time a top athlete had to devote to things like dating and family.

Sirius would have moved heaven and earth to keep his pup from having his rose-colored-glasses tarnished by the dark side of being a skater.

Fortunately, he never had had to, thanks to Yakov’s rather ill-fated ultimatum that kept his pup at home coupled with Harry’s very sweet but equally stubborn nature.

Now at almost-nineteen, the only thing Sirius still worried over wasn’t that his pup would end up broken in body or spirit, or develop some nasty addiction to cope with the public eye, no, they’d done well him and Moony to help him avoid the latter and that damnable Potter luck of his had done the rest.

No, it was that thus far, it appeared one bad mistake by a teenage boy who decided to think with his dick and got caught screwing around on his pup at a vulnerable age – the two of them had been dating for over a year when Zabini was exposed by none other than Rita Skeeter balls-deep in Ginny Weasley in his and Harry’s fourth year – had put off his pup from relationships for good.

Years had passed since that whole nasty mess, and Zabini had been paid back in _spades_ by having to marry the red-headed she-devil when the infamous Weasley fertility struck again, but still Harry preferred “arrangements” like the one that had just ended – or at least was in the process thereof, Sirius was a little shaking on where exactly they stood at the moment – with Krum or the ongoing – and honestly infuriating – one his pup had with that damned damphir.

So, if a skater with a reputation for being tenacious in the extreme when it came for going after anything he wanted – whether a medal, a jump, or anything really – was interested in his pup then…all to the better as far as Sirius was concerned once Remus had talked him around.

Viktor Nikiforov might not be a boy-scout with a sparkling reputation as pure as driven snow when it came to relationships…but at least he wasn’t a nearly-two-hundred-year-old damphir who treated people like a combination between a happy meal and a piece of disposable tissue…though worryingly his affaire with Harry seemed to have no end in sight, making Nikiforov’s interest in the pup an even timelier event than it would be otherwise.

Yes, they had agreed, Sirius and his mate, better a bullheaded Russian skater any day than the damned second-in-line to the vampiric throne.

Harry pulled his eyes away from where Chris had just nailed his quad lutz, no mistake in sight unlike at the GPF, and finally answered his dad, pulling the Animagus out of his own thoughts, though unknowing that unlike himself, Siri’s musings at approximately zero to do with what was going on on the ice and everything to do with what was going on off of it.

“Probably.”  Harry agreed with a hint of a rueful smile on his handsome face.  Prongs and Lilyflower had done a damn good job when it came to making a child, Sirius could give them that, even if they had been a bit too quick to trust in that barmy old coot who spent too much time contemplating his navel or whatever it was Dumbledore did while tucked away in his high tower at Hogwarts.  “At least during the summer.  I want Cooper out of my space as soon as possible.  Hopefully he’ll finally buckle down to work once we get back to London now and we can get started on the routines he’s being paid to produce.”

“Paid by Lorcan.”  Sirius scowled darkly, his pup sighing as Harry rolled his eyes dramatically as he turned to watch the sweepers do their work.  It was almost time for his routine…and he felt eyes boring into the back of their skulls…eyes that were likely blue in color and belonged to a top skater and his coach.

“Not right now, Siri.”  Harry cut him off at the pass.  “I’m about to go on.  We can revisit – once again – how much you hate the very ground Lorcan walks on despite being more than willing to continue your business ventures another time.”

“Well.”  Sirius arched a knowing brow at the pup as Harry quickly took off his skate guards and handed them over to the Animagus, the two of them easily spotting Remus and Rome making their way over to the Kiss and Cry where Siri would head as soon as Harry stepped onto the ice.  “That’s business pup.”  He gave a rakish grin to his son.  “And if I’ve taught you anything, it’s that personal feelings have absolutely dick-all to do with business.  Or in your case skating.”

Harry gave him a mocking salute and headed out onto the ice, Sirius giving Yakov a sneer-by-rote when he turned and found the pair of Russians, including the one he was just considering as a possible suitor for his son far-too-close to him.

Demanding bastard, letting down his pup when he needed him most, Sirius grumbled under his breath as he quickly strode over to join his mate and son at the Kiss-and-Cry, Harry’s skate guards safely tucked in one hand, well aware that unless Nikiforov was all cock and no brains – and all evidence currently pointed to the contrary – he’d pick up on the tidbit he should have been close enough to – this time – innocently overhear.

Though he hadn’t planned it that way, his pup’s answer had been a bit more revealing than he’d have liked if the pup wasn’t being so damned oblivious to what was going on with the Russian.  And after all, there was nothing wrong with letting the newcomer have a bit of insider information on the state of the playing field…now was there?

…

Yakov easily caught the look in his top-skater’s eyes when he heard that his former-skater’s more irritating father didn’t like – to the point of apparent hate – the stubborn boy’s famous toy-boy.

The older man snorted derisively, smacking Viktor lightly on the back of the head to get him focused back on the matter at hand i.e. the championship and not on Harry Evans’s ass.

His skaters liked to think – or perhaps just pretend – that he didn’t know what was going on with them but the truth of the matter was that there was little that went on, especially in the lives of his top skaters like Viktor, Yuri, and Mila, that he didn’t know all about…or was at least aware of.

He was a big enough man – puns regarding his waistline unintended – to admit at least to himself that Vitya could have done much worse when it came to forming a crush on another skater than Harry Evans…the Leroy pimple from Canada for example, or even worse one of his rink-mates.  But that didn’t mean he _liked_ the situation.  No.  And if Viktor had been paying attention to _everything_ the two had just said, he would have a moment of caution as well at the idea of truly pursuing the younger man.

Maybe it was because Yakov knew both of them better than they really knew each other, but he saw worlds of potential for trouble between the two…even if a pursuit was all it ever turned out to be and nothing deeper developed.

He’d had more than one moment of disquiet after finally cluing into what was going on to alternately distract and inspire Vitya these days.

Viktor Nikiforov, for all that Yakov often called him air-headed, had a deep well of emotion he rarely showed, expressed or shared.  He consistently pushed down his character traits to portray whatever was required of him at a given moment.  And carefully hidden under it all was a soft heart that was at odd with a rather unforgiving nature, though Yakov had only ever seen the latter come into play a handful of times in the fifteen years he’d known the skater, and almost all of them had to do with Lilia his estranged grandmother and Yakov’s own ex-wife.

Harry Evans meanwhile, was a horse of a different color with a nature that many times came off as mercurial but was nothing of the sort if one actually understood what made him tick.  He was dogged in his determination once he made decisions, he never wavered from his goals.  Indeed, Yakov would have said he had the perfect personality for a professional athlete.  If it wasn’t for the _other_ parts of him.  The parts that could be cold, cutting, and down-right vindictive.  Most people took one look at the emerald-eyed teen and saw a fluffy-headed, friendly and outgoing person who’d never had a bad thought in his head.  Most people were idiots.  Harry could be more cunning than Yuri during an escape from under Yakov’s watchful eyes, and more manipulative than Vitya in full-fan-service-performance.

What Yakov feared most wasn’t the pair of them clashing, but of even worse them getting along…and buffering each other’s worst traits.

A Vitya with his ability to put on a show and Harry’s keen ability to be coldly manipulative made him break out in hives.

Even Black had admitted it for all to hear just now: there was a distinct difference between how the two of them felt about people in private versus how they treated them in public, especially if there was something in it for them.

Of all the damned things for the Scotsman to instill in his son it had to be _that._

Yakov and Vitya watched Harry run through his free skate in near silence, Vitya’s blue eyes gleaming in challenge as his main competitor turn in a performance, much like Chris had, that was free of the technical flaws that had marked his GPF debut.  Both his best-friend and his… _interest_ were performing at the top of their games…or who Viktor assumed, having only a few performances of Harry’s to base his assumption off of.  But while his eyes and the back of his mind mentally tallied Harry’s score, getting some idea of how well he’d have to do in turn to beat the other man even before the routine was over, in the front of his mind he was turning the newest facets of _Harry_ over and over.

Harry apparently knew that his fathers didn’t approve of his whatever-it-was with d’Eath…and continued on anyway.  That spoke to either a disregard for others’ opinions or a sheer stubborn will…and honestly Viktor didn’t know him well enough to say which, or if it was a hefty measure of both.  More interesting, he’d also been raised – from what his father had said – to be able to separate personal feelings from public dealings…which actually spoke well of the possibility of the two of them to carry on a relationship while still competing with each other whole-heartedly.

But what stuck out most to Viktor, was that for the second time in a short while, he’d gleaned an almost tacit approval of his pursuit of Harry…so long as he got him away from d’Eath…which honestly was igniting his curiosity to discover just _what_ the two men had against the man, even to the point of hate if Harry was correct…other than that he was rather obviously sleeping with their son in some sort of “open” relationship.

If it could even be called that, the younger skater being somewhat phobic of putting labels on his _activities_ with others.

Viktor was one of the first to cheer as Harry finished his routine once more in the center of the ice, already knowing without the score being in that the other man had once more scored a personal best between the flawless jumps and the cleaned-up steps and movements in the field.

He gave a bright smile and a wink at the skater, gaining himself an amused arch of an ebony brow as Harry leaned down and snagged the poodle plushie Viktor had tossed at his feet, a mini-Makka, from the ice along with a wolf toy before skating off.

At his side, Yakov gave a hearty groan, grumbling under his breath about hormonal idiots who were thinking with their cocks, Viktor ignoring him all the while, focusing on unzipping and shrugging out of his jacket and doing a few last-minute stretches while the ice was cleared for his free skate.

Harry had given once more the best performance of his season, Viktor could do nothing less than attempt to match it.

…

“For me?”  Rome stared up at Harry with devastating puppy-dog eyes as he eyed up the brown poodle plushy that was bigger than him in his brother’s arms – honestly he had no idea where Viktor had pulled the thing from, though he was impressed – almost despite himself – that the slighter-built man had managed to lob it so far onto the ice.  That bespoke of hidden strength and lean muscles that Harry did _not_ need to be thinking of when it came to a competitor.

“Not this time, little wolf.”  Harry booped his nose, setting the life-sized poodle plush toy on the bench opposite Rome as they waited for the scores to come in, keeping it safe from grabby hands.  “This one is for you.”  He told him, handing over the smaller-but-impressive wolf plush that was a dead-ringer for Moony.

Rome squealed, burying his face in sandy-colored synthetic fur, the two of them gaining amused glances from their dads at the scene, before Remus hushed Rome as the screens blanked in preparation for showing his score.

The numbers flashed, and a devastating grin slashed across Harry’s handsome face, white teeth flashing under the bulbs of the cameras.

204.89…he’d not only beaten his personal best, he’d blown it out of the water, breaking the 200-point ceiling for the free skate for the first time in a major international competition and moving up ahead of Chris and into first place, gaining a personal best for combined score as well.

Even with Viktor’s amazing short program that had been Harry’s own by several points, the Russian would have to turn in a record-breaking performance to reclaim the top spot from Harry.

He was within touching distance of doing the unthinkable – knocking Viktor Nikiforov down into second place and a silver medal, an event unseen for the last three seasons.

Harry’s initial goal to determine whether or not he would continue with professional skating was almost at hand, all that stood between him and it being Viktor’s free skate…which wasn’t necessarily as sure of a thing as it could have been, given the Russian’s ability to perform near-miracles on the ice.

…

The music came down, the scores came in, and in a near-perfect replica of the GPF the crowd cried out in a mixed bag of cheers and groans.

Viktor stared up at the scoreboard in a mixture of shocked bemusement and deepening intrigue as it read: #2 Nikiforov, Viktor; combined score: 204.33.

He’d lost for the first time in recent history, and by less than a point.

Turning his head as he stood, Yakov muttering dire things under his breath about _practices_ and _laps_ and _stamina_ , Viktor felt a small smile cross his face for a brief moment as he spied an incandescently happy-and-shocked Harry being clamored by his fathers, his brother, his new choreographer, and the hulking _thing_ that had been following Harry around for the last few days and pawing at him whenever there was a quiet moment.

A little while later, as he stood on the second place podium and traded smiles with Chris and waved at the crowd, he looked up at Harry just as the other skater looked down.  Shooting him a wink, he gave a challenging grin and said: “Good job, Harry.  Enjoy it while it lasts.”  Then letting his true feelings shine a moment with a banked flame in his eyes, he dragged his gaze from the bottom of Harry’s leather pants over the nearly-obscene way they cupped what promised to be an impressive package, and up over the barely-there mesh that was all that kept golden skin from being bared to his eyes.  Viktor smirked up into shocked green eyes, then his eyes turned blankly-cheerful and he smiled brightly as he turned back to the cameras.

It wasn’t the most forward way to make his interest known, but at least now Harry would hopefully realize that his attraction was sincere and not the rote-flirtation that both he and Christophe excelled at.

“My goodness, darling Vitya.”  Christophe murmured under his breath once they were off the podium and lacing back up into their boots for the exhibition.  They went in sets by medal, bronze, silver, then gold, so they had a bit of time before Chris would take the ice, then a bit more while the pairs and Mila did their routines before Viktor’s, and then more until Harry’s turn, who was currently undergoing the glare of the cameras and the intrusive microphones of the reporters as the new European Men’s Champion, Sara Crispino who was the Lady’s Champion for the first time as well, and the winning-pair from France also doing the press meet-and-greet while the others prepared for their exhibition.  “I thought for a moment there you were going to pounce on him then and there.  I never realized being beaten to a medal was one of your turn-ons, my delicious _apfelküchlein.”_   Chris snickered a little at the light blush that dusted Viktor’s knife-edge cheekbones at his words.  “ _Honestly_ , Vitya, I haven’t seen you look at _anything_ with that much lustful intent since I took you to that chocolatier in Zurich.”

A look crossed Viktor’s face that made Chris roll his eyes and move to block the lovable idiot from the view of the press.

He’d bet his shiny bronze medal that now Viktor was imagining Harry and chocolate and all the delightful and wicked things one do with those two things together.

“Really, Vitya.”  Chris scolded him lightly, barely able to believe himself that the words were even coming out of his mouth.  “Have some control, man.  As it is you’ve just sparked a whole new world of speculation with coming in second and then that little scene on the podium.  If you make your crush too obvious, they’re going to _crucify_ him in the press, not to mention what the fans will say.  He won, and there’s more than one set of people who will be trying to play it off as _anything_ except him beating you.  Don’t fuck this up for him because you’re having trouble keeping it in your pants.”

“You’re a good friend, Christophe.”  Viktor told him a moment later after closing his eyes and putting his public mask back on, pushing thoughts of Harry and those leather pants and chocolate to the back of his mind for further examination later.

“Yes, yes.”  Chris gave an airy wave of his hand as he moved to the rink-gate, waiting there a moment before skating out when his name was called and the title of his exhibition was given.  “I accept tribute in the form of fine chocolate and finer wines, my faithful acolyte.”

Viktor just laughed, leaning with his arms crossed on the top of the rink-wall and watching as Chris went through his exhibition which was to _Moonlight Sonata_ and rather PG for one of Chris’s routines, as when he wasn’t trying to overwhelm the crowd and judges through pure sex appeal the Swiss man was an extremely flexible and elegant skater.

It was new for him, being able to just relax and enjoy the exhibition instead of dealing with the media circus first-thing the way the champions were mobbed, it had been several years in fact, and longer than that when he didn’t have Yakov hovering and chewing his ass off over whatever he’d done wrong while he wait to skate his own routine, his coach having to ride-herd on Mila who was skating with the next group and Yuri who’d tried to sneak out of the arena.

Before long, Chris was back off the ice and beaming, waving to the cheering crowds who were always enthusiastic over the exhibitions programs where the skaters were able to freely show off and have fun instead of having to worry about whether a move it legal for competition or fitting in the required elements.

Yuri had become infamous for pulling quads and backflips on the ice, always to rants from Yakov over his showboating, but he’d only been banned from doing quads in _competition_ and only then following an agreement he’d made with Viktor where Viktor would choreograph a routine for him for his Senior Debut if he won a Junior Grand-Slam without quads, the same way Viktor had.

Viktor stretched a bit, loosening and warming his muscles back up for his own exhibition.  He’d been switching up between a couple different ones for the last few years, but had decided after his dinner with Chris and Harry to dig one back out from several years prior that he hadn’t done more than tinker with since.  But he polished up a bit for today, since this performance was one before he had the depths of moves and jumps to use that he had now.

As he took the ice, he saw from the corner of his eye as Harry finally escaped from the press and went to sit next to Yuri and put his skate boots back on, Yuri shooting Viktor a disgusted look that had the older man laughing to himself.

Yuri _hated_ this routine of Viktor’s, hell, he hated _most_ of Viktor’s exhibition routines.

Which if Viktor could hear him, he’d bet was exactly what the younger man was complaining about to Harry…and he’d be right.

“I hate this sappy shit.”  Yuri groused as Harry plopped down next to his ‘time-out’ spot on the bench, Yakov having threatened dire consequences for the teen if he moved or tried to escape again.

“What sappy shit?”  Harry asked absently.  Lorcan wasn’t around to be gropey and affectionate so he wasn’t quite sure what the kitten was complaining about.  Viktor, especially in light of the end of their sexual relation…er _arrangement_ , had never been as comfortable with public displays as the damphir.  He looked up when Yuri threw his arm out towards the ice in an exaggerated gesture of loathing.  “Viktor?  His exhibitions tend to be, well, _perky_ and designed to make his fans swoon but I wouldn’t go so far as to say they’re sappy.”

“Nyet.”  Yuri scowled, slumping further down onto the bench as Harry started to do stretches of his own.  “I saw the music he gave to the audio people when we dropped all our routines off.  He dusted off one of his older routines.  Believe me.”  He sneered.  “It’s sappy shit.  I could _kill_ grandma-Mila for introducing him to that American _Glee_ bullshit.”  Pure unadulterated hated was poured as thickly as possible onto the name of the tv show, one that even Harry hidden away in Scotland most of the time had heard of.

“Glee?”  He chuckled, shaking his head.  “Viktor Nikiforov liked Glee?”

“Well…”  Yuri scratched at his chin a moment, he could _feel_ acne just boiling under the surface of his skin and it was irritating his already thin nerves.  “Not the story so much.  But he liked a lot of the music.  Went through this phase…”  Yuri snorted.  “I’m just glad he mostly got over it before the ISU lifted the lyrics ban or it would have been all over the damn place instead of just one or two exhibitions.”

“Which ones?”  Harry asked, intrigued despite himself.  _Glee_ and the music they tended to cover in that show weren’t exactly his cup of tea but he knew enough to know that they’d won multiple awards for some of the content and music.  From the other British Juniors gushing over it if nothing else.

“There’s this one…”  Yuri said as the sounds of a piano started trickling through the speakers and the fangirls started screaming before the first word or move even happened.  “ _Hello_ , I think it’s called.  And um, and…” he frowned then rolled his eyes.  “ _Edge of Glory_ , the vain asshole.”

“Ah.”  Harry gave a commiserating grimace before turning and focusing on the performance.  He didn’t tend to give _that_ much attention to exhibitions mainly because they were generally packed with moves that weren’t legal or were focused on fun skating and not a good indicator of the skater’s skills when it came to competition.  But if Viktor was pulling an old routine out and dusting it off…Harry was willing to bet there was a reason behind it.  Even if he was still a bit too oblivious to sort it out when the lyrics of Viktor’s choice pretty much gave him the answer…if were a bit too intense to be a true showing of what was going on with the Russian Prince.

Viktor wasn’t in love with Harry…at least he didn’t think so…or at least not that he was willing to admit to it being anything but attraction and infatuation.

But he tended to express himself best on the ice…so it was worth a shot if nothing else.

Crystal blue eyes locked on emerald green as the first words in a silky tenor coasted across the ice.

_I've been alone with you inside my mind  
And in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times_

Yuri took one look between the two men and rolled his eyes with a soft snort.  Idiotic airhead.  If Harry actually managed to figure it out (which Yuri doubted, he was nearly as clueless as Vitya) Viktor was going to scare him off with this shit.  And if it wasn’t for Yuri having to deal with devastated Vitya he’d actually hope for that.

  
_Hello, is it me you're looking for?_

Harry’s brows arched as Viktor began his routine with a smooth serpentine step sequence then spun with his arms open wide in invitation.  If this was an old routine, then Viktor had put in some work to bring it up to his current level of difficulty.  A though that was reinforced as he twisted and then leapt into a four-jump series, illegal in competition but fun to watch in exhibition going from a triple flip to a quad flip then into a triple loop-quad loop combination, making it a pair of combos inside of a jump sequence.

“Impressive.”  He mused, eyes tracking every sweep of an arm or turn of a wrist as he tended to do whenever watching the other skaters, ignoring the act for the acting.

  
_I can see it in your eyes  
I can see it in your smile  
You're all I've ever wanted, and my arms are open wide_  
  
The crowd – especially the women and gay men – screamed out declarations of love and devotion to the Prince on the ice, loving the simple costume of black slacks and boots with a plain black knit long-sleeved shirt with the arms pushed up and gloves that Viktor had quickly changed into to give himself a boy-next-door image, even if his hair was still pretty wild from his _Lux Aeterna_ performance earlier in the day.  Yuri snorted muttering: “He’s eating this up.  Like his ego needs any help.”

 _Are you somewhere feeling lonely, or is someone loving you?_  
Tell me how to win your heart  
For I haven't got a clue

“Truer words, Vitya.”  Chris laughed to himself, shaking his head as he watched the pair of Harry and Viktor, one oblivious and the other clueless.

_But let me start by saying ... I love you…_

Harry applauded along with the crowd, whistling as Viktor landed his last jump combo, a flashy and high pair of a triple lutz into a triple loop.  Viktor’s music choice was about the same length as a short program, the Russian Prince packing it with spins and spirals and jumps, with only the most minor of connecting moves to get needed speed and momentum, ending the routine with one of his iconic outstretched hands to the audience – though, Harry frowned, this time he wasn’t facing the crowd but the staging area.

Huh, he shook his head, ignoring the voice that was all-but-screaming in the back of his head.  He didn’t have the time – or at the moment the inclination – to deal with what that might mean.  Casting a quick look around, his eyes flicked over who was still hanging around the area, seeing only Yuri, the Crispino twins, and the Pairs gold medalists with their accompanying teams/coaches/family members.  Leaning down he asked:

 _“Is Viktor seeing anyone?”_   He whispered to Yuri in Russian, surprising the teenager, who got the most wicked of smirks on his face when he realized that anytime Vitya spoke Russian to Chris or Mila or Yuri in case Harry was nearby, he wasn’t being _nearly_ as circumspect as he thought, an assumption Yuri planned on using to pay the bastard back for all the lovestruck angst he’d had to deal with this season, and would continue to be subjected to until Vitya got his act together and actually _did something_ about his rather unfortunate attraction to the British skater.

“ _Don’t think so_.”  Yuri answered back, only in French as Viktor was skating their way and he didn’t want to give away the new game he was going to play with the two…though neither had any idea.  “ _Maybe he has a crush…”_   He said leadingly with a knowing arch of his brow, watching green eyes light up for a second in realization before the older teen visibly shut his own interest – and burgeoning knowledge – down.

Now _that_ was as intriguing to the Russian teen as the Briton himself was to his older-brother-type-loser-friend Viktor.

What the fuck was going on with the Briton that even the _thought_ of having someone maybe/maybe-not interested in him made him freeze up and block even the possibility out like that?  Especially that quickly.  It was only a moment or two before he’d done it, something that read like practice to Yuri, who like not interested in all that lovey-dovey bullshit himself, had been subjected to watching it among his rinkmates and on tv.  Yuri wasn’t stupid, or asexual like Viktor sometimes joked, he just didn’t have time for that fuckery.  That didn’t mean he didn’t _understand_ it, no matter how unwilling that understanding was.

Chris had been right in that shit he’d warned Vitya about, Yuri thought.  Evans was just as fucked in the head as the rest of them.  Only in a different way than Yuri or even Viktor or Christophe.

But _whatever_ Harry’s damage, it wasn’t Yuri’s problem beyond the vague concern of a new friend.  The rest of it was Vitya’s problem and Yuri was going to stay out of it.  At least until it got to the point that one of them was hurting the other because of their damage.

While Yuri had been contemplating, Harry had been spinning and getting out of Viktor’s trajectory, quickly disappearing among his family who were hanging out with Chris and Theo and – shudder – Cooper.  Harry absently answered Cooper’s questions, Chris joining him, regarding the differences between exhibition and competitive routines.  A conversation that kept him occupied all the while he kept one eye on the almost-sad form of Viktor Nikiforov as he sat and swapped his boots for street shoes at Yuri’s side.

“ _You’re starting to get it, aren’t you_?”  Chris whispered in his husky native French.  Christophe had grown up in _la Romandie_ , the French-dominate region of his native Switzerland.  Officially he spoke five languages, French, his first language, then German, Italian, Romansh, and English; but he also had a rough grasp of Russian from his years of friendship with Viktor.  Chris still made his official home in Geneva, though he and Theo kept a flat in Zurich, since that is where Theo’s hockey team was headquartered.

 _“Ouais, malheureusement.”_   (Yeah, unfortunately.) Harry shook it – and Chris off.  He didn’t have _time_ for this.  _“Wrong place, definitely the wrong time, Christophe.”_

 _“You won’t be able to convince_ him _of that.”_ His clinging-like-a-tick friend told him with no little amount of amusement.  “ _Our Vitya goes after what he wants: whether it’s a medal, a sponsorship, or in this case a person.”_

 _“I’m not available.”_ Harry shot back firmly.  _“And that’s the end of it.”_

With that, Harry brushed the Swiss skater more firmly, then made his way to center ice to make his own statement, one that will hopefully convince the Russian of the futility of his suit…though at least Harry knew why Viktor had been so quiet around him.  If he took _Hello_ as an attempt to reach out to him, then Nikiforov really didn’t have any idea of how to approach him – which was a good thing, Harry told himself firmly despite one particular section of lyrics playing in his mind as he waited for his own music to begin for the exhibition’s finale performance which as a result was longer than the rest, bridging the lengths of a free skate and short program at just shy of three and a half minutes.

_Are you somewhere feeling lonely, or is someone loving you?_

…

Viktor was downhearted as he watched Harry wander away to stretch and warm-up surrounded by his family and that muscly athlete that from what he understood was in the middle of a break-up with Harry…if it could be called a break-up.

Did you call it a break-up when there wasn’t a couple to break apart in the first place?

Viktor didn’t know, but it was pretty clear from the way the _other_ Viktor was watching Harry that whatever had happened between them, it wasn’t entirely mutual despite what he understood of the situation from his unofficial one-sided chats with Harry’s fathers.

Which was a pretty way to gloss over eavesdropping, but Viktor was well-aware of his own failings when it came to being morally flexible.

Mere minutes after Viktor was in his street shoes, Yakov came over to try and chivvy them – him, Yuri, and Mila among others of their rinkmates – from the arena and back to the hotel only to be faced with mutiny.

Not one of them were interested in leaving before the finale performance.

Yuri had perhaps made it the clearest with little more than a roll of his eyes and a snort before making a show of getting more comfortable on the bench, throwing his feet up and into Viktor’s own lap and propping himself against Mila’s shoulder.

Yakov muttered dire threats of extra laps for the mutiny, only to be hushed by Mila when the announcer gave the Harry’s name and that of his music, surprising more than one of the crowd at the step away from his normal exhibition and preferred music genre all at once.

American Country-Western wasn’t _exactly_ a genre that was heard all that often in figure skating.

Though many would agree that if Harry Evans wanted to skate to Luke Bryan, he at least at the attitude to pull it off…in fact, Viktor thought listening closely to the lyrics with raised brows, there wasn’t likely any skater in the arena who could better get into the character required by _“Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye”_ than Harry who’d amped up the image with bright red pants, a silver shirt, and a black leather jacket. 

_All we do right is make love and_

_We both know now that ain’t enough_

“So that’s why he was practicing this.”  Yuri muttered at his side, eyes narrowed on the movements that had clearly been cleaned up since the one practice he’d sat-in on.  He snorted, nudging Vitya in the side and jerking his head towards the Bulgarian rink-side with Harry’s family.  “Look at his _face_.”

_Ain’t gonna beg you to stay_

_Ain't gotta ask you what's wrong_

_Ain’t no reason running after something already gone_

Viktor gave a little chuckle at the trying-to-be-cool mask that was breaking more and more with each word of the song and spin or jump on the ice.  Irritation being chief among the emotions that the other man was showing.  Please.  Krum had been involved with a performer.  He _had_ to have known that something like a break-up, no matter the relationship or non-relationship that had preceded it, would be used to fuel a performance.

_Take off your leavin' dress_

_Let’s do what we do best_

_I guess everybody’s got their way of moving on_

_Girl rest your head one more time in my bed_

_Love me like you loved me when you loved me_

_And you didn’t have to try_

_Let’s lay down tonight_

_And kiss tomorrow goodbye_

The crowd gasped as Harry skated into center ice and performed the first of his illegal tricks that he’d shown off to Yuri: a layback spin that he used to transition into a backflip to the roaring approval of the crowd as he smiled and turned with a flair, picking up speed then launching into the quad salchow that had given him problems at the GFP, showing clearly that his clean execution of the jump in his free skate wasn’t a fluke.

_Baby who we are just didn’t work_

Viktor Krum felt his hands clench on the rink rail, jaw tight as he watched his friend and former-lover advertise their break-up for the entire world.

He’d known that Harry had taken it too well.

And closet Slytherin that the younger man was, he’d chosen his revenge in the most showy and sneaky of ways.

That damned d’Eath was sure to be fucking _ecstatic._

_But maybe we can leave with something out of all this hurt_

_Ain’t gonna beg you to stay_

_Ain’t gotta ask you what’s wrong_

_Ain’t no reason running after something already gone_

_Take off your leavin' dress_

Which line had some in the crowd amused, his dads and Nikiforov among them, since bright red skin-tight pants and a leather jacket couldn’t be more _on the prowl_ if Evans had tried…which he did, but decided to stay away from his racier outfits, even his black boots had bright red detailing and blades.

_Let’s do what we do best_

_I guess everybody’s got their way of moving on_

_Girl rest your head one more time in my bed_

_Love me like you loved me when you loved me_

_And you didn’t have to try_

_Let’s lay down tonight_

_And kiss tomorrow goodbye_

“Oh god.”  Remus gasped, those around them including the Russian group turning to look with interest at the exclamation, then turning back to the ice listening to the upset and worry filling the normally-calm man’s voice.  “He’s going to do it.  He really is.  _Goddamn it_ , cub.”  He shook his head, hand reaching for and clinging to his husband’s hand, Siri’s silver eyes also filled with worried terror for their son as Rome watched them with confusion, recognizing the lead-in to the move his brother was going to perform but not understanding why his papa was upset.  “Always has to push it.”

“At least he’s not trying a quint.”  Sirius soothed his mate, speaking of a jump with five rotations such as a quintuple toe-loop.  The quint jumps were possible in theory, but in reality far too dangerous for any sane skater to attempt, even if they did have the correct combination of slim build and sheer strength to pull it off.  A skater would have to jump far too high and far too fast, to the point that a fall was more likely than not to be at least career-ending if not life-threatening.

“No,” Remus snarled, scowling.  “Just one of his damn acrobatic tricks instead.  That’s _so_ much better.”

_Ain’t gonna beg you to stay_

_Ain’t gotta ask you what’s wrong_

_Ain’t no reason running after something already gone_

The group near Harry’s family watched with clear interest and intrigue as Harry did several quick laps around the ice, building up speed with each lap and showing off the sheer strength of his legs as he could almost propel himself from one side to the other with one stroke of his blades, the muscles tensing and flexing in his legs shown to advantage by the stretchy pants – that for once weren’t leather – Harry was wearing and his abs likewise showing under his silk muscle-type sleeveless tank and open leather jacket.

Then there were no more questions over Remus’s upset or what he’d meant by _acrobatic tricks_ when Harry turned for center ice and struck the toe pick of his left skate just _so_ on the ice, his built up momentum launching him to the air.  Up and up he flew, his body twisting in a 360, then a full 720, then a clear aerial triple-twist, a gymnastics move never seen before – and that was a clear illegal move as it put his skates at times higher on the plane than his head as he twisted.

“He’s going to come down heavy.”  Yakov shook his head, lips tight with disapproval.  “Could break a skate – or his damn leg.  Stupid boy needs a coach to keep him from doing stupid shit like this.”

Stupid shit or not – the crowd was roaring louder than Viktor had ever heard it before, save perhaps an Olympic crowd.

Though he had to admit, Yakov was right.

It was a fucking _stupid_ thing to do with the World Championship in less than a month.  If he hurt himself on the landing, Harry wouldn’t have time to recover to attend.  If he didn’t screw himself right out of his career in his senior debut season entirely.

“Just listen to them cheer, though.”  Mila said with admiration overcoming her shock, echoing the feeling of just about every skater watching as Harry landed cleanly despite Yakov’s dire prediction and using the remaining momentum from the twist to swing his left leg around and into a spiral.  “They love it.”

“Fans always love stupid shit like that.”  Yuri snorted.  “That doesn’t make it smart.”

“No, it doesn’t.”  Georgi commented for the first time with deep consideration in his voice.  “But for a skater that’s gotten some blow-back from the judges already in his career, there’s nothing _smarter_ for him to do than get the crowds and the fans firmly on his side…even if he had to do – as our Coach said – _stupid shit_ to do it.”

_Take off your leavin' dress_

_Let’s do what we do best_

_I guess everybody’s got their way of moving on_

_Girl rest your head one more time in my bed_

_Love me like you loved me when you loved me_

_And you didn’t have to try_

_Let’s lay down tonight_

_And kiss tomorrow goodbye_

_Kiss tomorrow goodbye._

Viktor just _happened_ to be hovering near Chris when Harry finally left the ice to the cheers and roar of the crowd, more stuffed toys in his hands that he passed off to his little brother with a laugh as the hyper four-year-old bubbled all over his daredevil brother.

Close enough in fact, to hear the hissed critique from Krum – and more importantly Harry’s response, which had the Russian smiling brightly despite not having gotten the response to his own exhibition that he’d hoped for from the Briton.

“What the _fuck_ was that, Harry?”  Krum hissed in French to keep little ears from picking up on the words of the conversation – though even someone across the world with no idea of what they were saying would have been able to pick up on the tone involved.

“What did you expect, Vit _’ka_?”  Harry asked in turn, putting a derisive inflection on the diminutive.  “Tears?”  He scoffed, giving his former-lover an implicit cold-shoulder and bending down to pick up Rome once he’d swapped out his skates for his shoes.  “Not ruddy likely.”

“Ok.”  Yuri looked up at Vitya with grudging admiration in his voice.  “I kinda get the interest now.  That was fucking badass.”

“Language, Yuratchka.”  Vitya told him absently, his eyes fixed on the laughing form of Harry, who was acting as if he hadn’t just shot a metaphorical bird at the steaming Bulgarian who took the dismissal with clear bad-humor and stormed off.

Mentally, the Russian media darling winced.

That whole scene from the routine to the reaction, was going to be _all over_ the gossip sites by morning.

Hell, it probably already was blowing up social media, and it had only been a matter of minutes.

“Language my ass.”  Yuri muttered, diving into his bag as Yakov collected them all like ducklings and hurried them away from the arena.  He knew he had another chocolate bar from Harry somewhere, he just had to find it.

Tinkling giggles caught his attention as he came up empty, the teen turning his head to focus on Mila…and the unwrapped chocolate bar she was in the process of splitting between herself and their other rink-mates.

“Thanks, Yuratchka.”  She called back to the seething boy.

“Death.”  Yuri swore revenge as he stormed passed the evil grandma for the van.  “Death to you.  I’ll kill you yet, Baba Yaga just you watch.”

…

** Heartbreak in Prague? **

**_Yesterday the end of the ISU European Championship was filled with drama and upset – and not just on the ice._ **

**_Victor Nikiforov, the Russian Ice Prince who has dominated the Men’s Senior international division for the last several years following a record-breaking debut season at only sixteen, was for the first time in recent history unseated from his throne of all-round champion.  The Russian, who wins figure skating medals including the prestigious “Grand Slam” of gold medals at the three major international competitions: the Grand Prix Final, the European or Four Continents championship (depending on the skater’s country of origin), and the World Championships, the way other skaters each breakfast: with habitual regularity, was in the lead following the Men’s Senior division short programs several days ago.  It appeared that Nikiforov would be gliding away with yet another gold._ **

**_And then Harry Evans, the eighteen-year-old debut Senior Men’s skater from Scotland, took the ice, skating away with a new personal best score for both his free skate program and a personal best combined score._ **

**_Many think of Evans as a controversial skater, who favors edgier musical choices and he_ is _known for his athleticism outstripping his artistry, who had gained prominence in Britain’s Junior Men’s circuit before an impressive debut which included an invitation to the Grand Prix tournament, where he came within scant points of snatching the gold away from Nikiforov._**

**_A feat that he proved himself more than capable of the European Championship, as after Nikiforov’s free skate, Evans was still at the top of the leaderboard, winning gold by a slim margin._ **

**_The fans were alternately elated and heartbroken, while Nikiforov seemed to hardly notice the loss, so sparkling was his smile and genial his words to the press._ **

**_However, the drama didn’t end there, oh no._ **

**_Once the podium had been cleared and the skaters were prepared, it was time for the exhibition skate, normally a time for fun and entertainment, which this year in Prague came packed with drama of its own._ **

**_Skating in the second group, Nikiforov dusted off – and had apparently polished – his performance of_ “Hello” _to much adulation from the packed arena.  Where the fun ends and the potential scandal begins was during the very first verse, where the Russian skater seemed to be directing his attention not towards the crowd as a whole – as has been his habit throughout his career – but towards a specific area of the rink.  An area which while housing many skaters and their families, was_ also _where Evans – who has become known for his male lovers – was seated and speaking with the Junior Champion Yuri Plisetsky.  Many speculate that the outstretched hand was, in fact, directed towards the seated pair, giving rise to dueling opinions over which younger man might have caught the Russian Prince’s eye._**

**_But the drama, once again, didn’t end there._ **

**_Less than an hour later, during the performances from the Senior gold medalists, Evans made a statement of his own, debuting a new exhibition routine set to American singer-songwriter Luke Bryan’s “Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye” a clear message to the known-companion of Evans and son of a minor nobleman, Victor Krum, who was watching rink-side with Evans’s brother and fathers – the latter of whom were treating said-companion with a distinct chill._ **

**_A chill that didn’t end after Evans’s trick-packed routine which featured more than one banned-for-competition acrobatic trick including backflips and a rarely-seen-in-singles aerial triple twist._ **

**_Many near the waiting group off the ice overheard the following exchange between the (one assumes_ former _) couple, captured in_ this** **_photo:_**

**_Krum: What the (profanity) was that, Harry?_ **

**_Evans: What did you expect, Vit’ka, tears?_ **

**_A split was in the offing, or had already taken place, when one adds the exchange to the chilly behavior of Evans’s fathers and his danger-ridden routine, the music of which being an anthem of breaking hearts and breaking up._ **

**_One thing however, is clear in the wake of the drama and heartbreak laden Euro championship:_ **

**_Harry Evans is both talented and here to stay._ **

\- **_Tory Daniels, World Skating News, “In Other News” column_**

…

The weeks between the Euro/4C championships and Worlds flew by for everyone involved in the international figure skating world with two very big – and very prominent – exceptions.

Harry was run off his feet between beginning rehearsals with Cooper for the routines that the choreographer had roughed out, meetings with his solicitor and agent to deal with the sponsorship and other offers that had started pouring in after the GPF only to become a deluge after his win, arranging his affairs to self-manage for the most part in the wizarding world now that he’d met his goal of a major gold and would be spending what would likely end up being years in the muggle sector, and lastly dealing with the fall-out from his split – or whatever – with Viktor which made both the magical and mundane news.

Lorcan was, as predicted, ecstatic that for the moment at least he didn’t have to share Harry’s attention with other suitors, his interest in the skater being nothing as casual as it appeared, even to Harry himself.

His fathers were right to be wary of the damphir’s attentions and _intentions_ , were it not for the backlash Lorcan and his vampire-royalty family would face, Harry would’ve have been bonded as a blood-servant or flat-out turned long before now.  Instead, the damphir had to hope that eventually Harry would want a future with him, or otherwise become open to the idea.  Anything else than complete free-will in such a decision would have an all-new wizarding-versus-creature war springing up…and not even the most war-like of the vampire rulers, Lorcan’s own grandfather Vlad Tepes, the infamous Impaler that inspired Dracula’s tale, wanted such a thing.  It would be too costly in both lives and blood, creature and wizarding.

As a result, the damphir kept his elation low-key, keeping it to a mere pop-round after Harry returned from Prague, complete with ice cream and a bottle of finest bloodwine to “mourn” the implosion of what had seemed to be a solid arrangement.

Krum and Harry were still friends, but with the end of their arrangement and Viktor’s upcoming engagement, things were cooler than in the past from sheer necessity until their physical relationship had been over for a longer period of time.

Unfortunately for Harry, he was distracted at exactly the _wrong_ time, as his window of opportunity to shut down speculation of a few muggleborn classmates from his time at Hogwarts over the real identity of Harry _Evans_ being Harry _Potter-Black_ was well and truly shot by the time it reached his notice.

For the moment, however, he was ignorant to his soon-to-be-blown anonymity and the separation between his two identities disappearing more and more every day.

In Russia, the other person for whom time seemed to drag was…well… _pouting._

Neither the critics nor his own fans had been all that _kind_ about his seeming fall from grace at the hands of Harry, driving the former-King of Men’s Figure Skating to work his ass off on the ice to prepare for Worlds, even contemplating changing the order of his jumps – or switching some out entirely – to increase his technical score against Harry who had effectively proven that even without being on the same level of artistry that Viktor had mastered, his athleticism and stamina more than outmatched Viktor’s own. 

Everything about Harry had seemed to be a wakeup call for Viktor…and he wasn’t entirely sure he liked it.

But one thing was certain, he wasn’t bored, and he wasn’t considering retirement any longer.

Snuggling into Makkachin’s soft wiry brown fur, his poodle a ringer for the stuffy he’d given the object of his not-nearly-so-innocent affections, Viktor turned the events of the exhibition over and over…not to mention the little Yuri and Chris were willing to share about their conversations with Vitya’s favorite obsession.

“Yuri said he asked if I was single, Makka.”  Viktor murmured, his beloved poodle groaning in commiseration as his clever fingers found his scratchy spots and set to work.  “Then he ran off when Yuri answered.  Why would he do that, Makka?”  He gulped, terrified blue eyes staring into comforting brown.  “You don’t think it’s because of my… _age_ ,” he finished with a whisper, speaking of the dreaded subject.  “Do you, Makka?”

Makkachin snorted in seeming derision in answer, Vitya’s face visibly brightening at the sound.

“No, you’re right, I’m being foolish.”  He agreed heartily.  “That,” Viktor wrinkled his nose.  “ _Singer_ of his has to be my age or older.  That _can’t_ be it…”  He sighed, sinking his face back into Makka’s fur and muttering.  “It was just bad timing.  That’s what Chris said.  Wrong place, wrong time, what with the break-up _f-you_ skate Harry performed and everything I found out from his fathers.  It’s pretty clear he broke off his arrangement with that Bulgarian.”  His tone firmed, blue eyes sparkling.  “I’ll just have to be patient.”  He winced.  “And apparently a bit more confident when I’m around him…and _not_ just on the ice.”  Viktor rose as Makka nosed him with a snuffle.  “It would likely help things if I’m able to _finally_ have a conversation with him and not just _about_ him…”

…

“Harry!”

In an echo of his response to the same happenstance at the GPF, Harry Evans stopped on a dime and waited for the voice’s owner, one Phichit Chulanont to catch him up – though this time they were at the hotel in Washinton D.C., this year’s host city for the World Championships of international figure skating, and not at the rink itself.

Small mercies.

This competition was the first where he’d have neither friend, friend/lover, or family in attendance.  Remus and Lorcan were both – funnily enough – working against deadlines though for very different projects, Remus for his latest set of textbooks and Lorcan for the music and lyrics – if not the actual vocal and instrumental tracks – for his next album which he was due to start actively recording any when now.  With Remus occupied, Sirius had taken over being Rome’s main caregiver, and with ever-increasing bouts of accidental magic beyond his metamorphic abilities, had opted to stay home without another wand available to cover up any outbursts.  That Viktor wasn’t present was self-explanatory.

Indeed, without needing to devote time to anyone in particular, Harry had found himself at loose ends, especially since the increased interest in him by the press with his win and the rumors swarming around regarding the events at the Euros kept him mainly shackled to his hotel room or the practice rink while the Junior division and Senior Pairs and Ladies competed in their short programs.

Phichit’s presence was very much a boon to the other skater, even if it did come with prying questions guaranteed to be attached.

“So here’s my thought.”  Phichit told him without preamble as he made it to Harry’s side.  “We all had a great time at the party after the GPF…blackmail aside.”

Harry felt a pinch of dread deep in his stomach.  He had an inkling where this was going.  And it was somewhere that would likely end with him having to confront something he was desperately trying to ignor.

“Lorcan is busy Phichit.”  Harry tried to cut him off at the pass.  “He as an album that he has to get finished writing and recording, music videos to film, and a tour to prep.  He doesn’t have time to hop a plane and come out.”

Besides which, considering the current state of affairs with the debts called in or still owed between the two of them, Harry isn’t exactly jumping for joy at the thought of adding to it.

As it was, he knew Lorcan was saving up those markers for something…he just wasn’t clear what.

But he knew he didn’t have a good feeling about it.

“Pfft.”  Phichit batted his words out of the air with the hand not holding onto his phone, blowing a raspberry at Harry.  “He was great for hosting, but all he really did was set the party up and ogle you all night or dance a couple of times – mostly with you.  It was fun meeting him and all…”  Phichit shrugged.  “But it really didn’t matter if he was there or not after the first like, fifteen minutes.”

“Ouch.”  Harry chuckled.  “I can feel Lo’s ego deflating all the way from Paris.”

“’s true.”  Phichit insisted.  “Other than you, he mostly just talked to Chris and his boyfriend Theo…and I think he danced with Sara once.  That’s it, for the whole night!”  Phichit pouted, crossing his arms dramatically.

“I don’t have the penthouse again, Phichit.”  Harry made another attempt at derailing him.  “I didn’t have it then, either.  That was all Lorcan.  And being D.C., it’s not exactly _easy_ to get arrangements like that made last minute either.”

“No, that’s not what I’m thinking.”  Phichit shook his head as he wandered into Harry’s private suite following the younger skater.  How the others _still_ haven’t figured out the Briton’s financial situation was a mystery to the Thai skater.  It wasn’t like Harry spent all the much effort trying to hide it.  Though he was pretty sure at this point that Christophe and Viktor probably had an idea, as both of them came from money and knew how to spot it.  “We have that day off between the final and the gala, right?  Why not go out after the final and go to a club or something here in D.C.?  It’s not like it would be dangerous or anything for any of us like it could have been in Russia.”

Harry had to admit the older skater had a point.  Unlike other competitions there was a gala to celebrate the end of the season after worlds, with the exhibitions going on all day prior to it that night after the final competition.  Going clubbing in Russia as an openly gay foreigner was just _asking_ to get the shit kicked out of him – or worse.  Whereas D.C. for having crime similar to other large cities, was in the U.S. and nominally safer with recent strides in LGBTQ+ rights, despite recent upheaval regarding their recent election and new president.

“You’re not going to let this go are you?”  He muttered rhetorically.  “Do you already have a place in mind?”  Harry asked, mentally giving in with a sigh when he saw the look on the smaller man’s face.  “Or is that why you’ve come to me?”

“Please?”  Phichit gave him a cheesy grin.  “I thought with _Lorcan_ and all…”

“I’ll ask him.”  Harry told him, plopping down onto his bed.  “Now if that’s all…”

“You’re the best Harry!”  Phichit chirped, darting back out of the hotel room.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”  Harry muttered to himself, thumbing through the unlock on his phone.  “Somehow I just _know_ I’m going to regret this.”

…

** Return to Form? **

**_The World Championship results are in, in an ending to a year that was thrilling for some and shocking to others._ **

**_What no one denies, however, is that this has been a year that has drawn attention and interest to a sport that has definitely been waiting for a resurgence for the last twenty years._ **

**_Recent changes to ISU policy, including the inclusion of music with lyrics, began an upswing along with once again having skaters capable of both breaking and setting records in the Russian Ice Princes Victor Nikiforov and Yuri Plisetsky, the latter of whom has equaled the early career of his older rinkmate with his gold medal win this evening in Washington D.C._ **

**_But many point to another source for the increased interest, this year’s Men’s Singles World Silver Medalist, Harry Evans._ **

**_With high-energy routines, aggressive technique, and not being afraid to perform competition-banned tricks during his exhibitions, the young – and admittedly handsome – Briton has wooed audiences all over the world, an effect that culminated earlier this year with an unheard-of win against the dominating force that is five-time World Champion Victor Nikiforov.  Between his skating chops and his high-profile relationship with superstar Lorcan d’Eath, Evans is a lightning rod for both fans and controversy.  Openly gay, he makes no bones about the sexual component of his “friendship” with both d’Eath and who seems to have been relegated to “ex” status, a minor nobleman from Bulgaria one Viktor Krum._ **

**_Evans isn’t afraid to make statements, even taking on his own fans at times when emotion has swayed them into denigrating his fellow skaters._ **

**_One thing is one many minds at the end of this year:_ **

**_What will next season bring?_ **

**_For full results from the World Championship click_ [Here].**

…

A slightly-downtrodden Harry Evans climbed out of the cab and followed his friend towards the club Lorcan had told him would suit their needs – including looking the other way when technically-underage skaters like himself – at least in the States – and Yuri arrived.

He eyed the exterior for a moment, finding himself liking the appearance of a staid row of brownstones that had been renovated into a multi-level, multi-themed club called simply _Trinity_.

“C’mon, Harry!”  Phichit called out as he hit the door, skirting the line, where the bouncer – already prepped thanks to Lorcan – was holding open the door for their large group that had all arrived and congregated at the door, waiting on him since he was their ticket into the club regardless of age.

“Mister Evans.”  A handsome man in a sleek black suit nodded to him when Harry came to the front of the group of skaters and the line of clubgoers – many of whom had phones out and were filming, whether they were aware of _who_ it was they were filming or not.  “Trinity welcomes you and passes on Mr. Tepes’s regards.”

Ah.  Harry nodded smoothly after arching a brow.  Lorcan’s father – or his grandfather, though father was more likely since it was greetings from _Lord_ Tepes – owned the club.  Looking around as the others sauntered into the club ahead of him, he finally spotted the rune.  It was a vampire-owned club that doubled as a safehouse.  But as it was open to the public, any of the more _risqué_ behavior on the part of the night-loving beings would be kept in private areas…along with a strict no-glamour or allure on the customers policy.  This was a place for a vampire – or the rare damphir like Lorcan – who enjoyed the chase, not ones looking for an easy fuck-and-feed.

“Stick together, everyone.”  He warned his friends – and their friends, Harry hardly knew everyone yet – just to be careful.  He wouldn’t want anything… _untoward_ to happen to such high-profile people while in his company.  “There were enough cameras on us out there than _any_ misbehavior will be on tomorrow’s front page of the gossip rags.”

“We hear you, Harry.”  Christophe called out and waved a hand back towards the Briton.  “No walks of shame for us, yes?”

A raucous round of laughter sprang up from the group, one that was much larger than that of the small party in Lorcan’s penthouse following the GPF.

Harry rolled his eyes and wandered off towards the sounds of a hot guitar.

He’d done his due-diligence, anything else that happened was on them.

Against his will, a little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth when he saw that he’d picked up a few tag-a-longs in the form of Phichit, Chris, Theo, Viktor, and Yuri – the main group that Phichit wanted to hang out with, only missing one lovely Sara Crispino that Harry would lay good money on finding them as soon as she extricated herself from her brother’s smothering clutches.

Right on time, as the mental clock of Harry’s wound down, Phichit bounced back up to his side as the others sort of folded in around the two of them as Harry cut a seemingly-effortless path through the club that was still a bit sparse given the hour.  The Tepes family took high pride in the exclusiveity of their clubs, only letting in people at a trickle prior to ten at night and even then wasn’t at full capacity until somewhere around midnight.  Those inside now were likely all like Harry and his group – having access to the owners for one reason or another that lets them claim prime seats in the club before the deluge of bodies began.  Which according to the watch on Harry’s wrist would be any moment now.

“Where are we heading, Harry?”  Phichit asked after a moment, eyes dragging over some girls dancing in scanty club-wear on the floor of the hip-hop club.  Now _that_ was definitely Phichit’s speed.

Harry wordlessly pointed towards an archway that separated two club areas from each other.  There were three distinct “dance” clubs inside the massive space, with calmer “lounge” areas separating them.  When you walked in, it was to the hip-hop dance club, then you passed through a mellower R&B/Jazz lounge which led into the Salsa/Latin dance club – and Harry’s objective.  The Latin club was bracketed by the R&B/Jazz lounge on one side and a Blues lounge on the other that led into a “Dance” club that played pop, rock, and top 40 music as well as the occasional techno track which circled into a true bar area then led back into the hip-hop club.

“You can stay here, Phichit.”  Harry told him with a smile.  “Dance, yeah?  I’ll be in the Salsa club.”

“Ooh.”  Chris clapped his hands in excitement.  “You’re going to dance with me, of course!”

Harry gave a genuine laugh for the first time since his most-disappointing loss to date.  It wasn’t that crushing to lose to Viktor at the GPF – because at that point he didn’t have any real _expectation_ of a win, just the hope that he could.  Now, it was so much worse.  He _knew_ , now, that he could claim victory against the Russian Prince.

He just… _hadn’t_ this time.

This time.

That was what he was clinging to.

He’d done it once, he _could and would_ do it again.

It didn’t help matters that Viktor had broken his own rules – once again – and changed the line-up of his jumps, doing something the older skater _never_ did and putting all of his quads in the second half of both routines.

Viktor had netted himself enough of a buff that he’d beaten Harry by a scant three-point-six points.

The talented wanker.

“Order champagne!”  The Thai skater who had grown used to Harry’s extravagant taste in liquor shouted.  “A magnum!  I’ll find you!”  And with that Phichit was off like a shot to show off his moves and woo some of the lovely beauties populating the club…at least until Sara managed to shake off her brother.

Then it’d be a whole different matter.

But for the moment the man was free to dance with who he pleased, until he had more time with the dusky Italian beauty that was slowly capturing his attention entirely.

If only she would put her foot down with Micky over her dating…

Laughing to himself, Harry continued leading the way towards the Salsa club, only pausing a moment to horse-collar Yuri.

“No way in hell.”  He said mildly, arching a brow at the sixteen-year-old.  “Just having you – and some of the rest of us – here is walking a very thin line with the U.S.’s laws.  You’re staying _right_ where I can keep an eye on you so you don’t get my friend’s family in trouble for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

Viktor didn’t even bother muffling his laughter at the scowl that covered the kitten’s face at that ultimatum from Harry.

Yuri groused all the way into the Salsa club and the booth that had a “Reserved” placard on it.

Harry just smiled and shook his head ruefully when Theo questioned the choice.

“Lorcan.”  Was all he said.  “Never misses a trick.”

Stretching his arms out as the others exchanged confused glances, he waited patiently for what turned out to only be a matter of moments before a stunning Latina beauty in a bright red Salsa-type dancing dress brought out a tray of flutes and a magnum of champagne saying:

“Complements of Mr. d’Eath, Mr. Evans.”

“Thank you, lovely.”  Harry said taking her hand and giving it a smooth kiss, putting his words to action.  “What _are_ Mr. d’Eath’s orders for tonight, dove?”

The young woman – not a vampire from that blush – fluttered dark lashes over flashing liquid brown eyes.

“You and your guests are to be given whatever they desire, no questions asked, Mr. Evans.”  Her words took on a sultry purr as Harry kept hold of her hand, much to her delight.  It had only taken the waitress one glance at his Gucci leather pants and his Dolce silk shirt  - let alone being a _special friend_   - of Mr. d’Eath’s for her to peg him as a _Very Important Person_.  Catching the attention of someone like _that_ even for a short time would be a boon to a poor girl from the barrio…especially if Mr. Evans was as _generous_ as the Tepes family was known to be with those that caught their interest.

“Thank you.”  Viktor’s icy Russian accent cut through the budding flirtation.  Though why the girl was bothering when Harry had been open about having a staunch preference for men, was beyond him.  “We’ll let you know if we need anything.”

Blushing and flustered at the clear dismissal, the waitress made her escape from ice-cold blue eyes with a shiver.

Better for her if she kept away from drawing that one’s ire.

It wouldn’t be good for her if any of Mr. d’Eath’s guests gave a negative report to the club owners.

No, not good _at all._

“Meow, Vitya.”  Chris commented as Harry just watched the blondes surrounding him – save for Theo – in amusement.  “Frighten the poor girl why don’t you?  She was just being friendly…”

Yuri snorted at that.  “Friendly my ass.  She took one look at our idiotic Brit and saw dollar signs.”

“It was harmless.”  Harry’s soft voice interjected, cutting off the argument before it could gain traction.  “Now, drinks all around – yes even you Yura.  And then we dance.”

…

And dance they did.

Chris made good on his dance request with Harry, monopolizing the ebony-haired man for the first hour, the two of them spinning each other through song after song, the two men both of equal height trading the lead role, though Harry being stronger often raised Chris in lifts to the other’s delight.

Many of the male figure skaters were similar in height, the five-foot-five Phichit and five-foot-four Yuri being exception, though Yuri at least still had time to grow.  Often there was only an inch or two in difference between them, such as Chris and Harry who were both six foot, with Georgi and Micky both coming in at five-ten, and so on.  Viktor again was a bit taller than most at six-two, but was likely to be outstripped by Yuri depending on how much the younger man grew.  If one judged by his male relative like his grandfather, the little Russian kitten _would_ indeed be a tiger at somewhere upwards of six-foot.

It made for good fun, if a bit of finagling, as the skaters all danced both with each other and the club goers who steadily arrived until Trinity reached capacity.

To Harry’s amusement, he won a hundred dollars off of Christophe when Phichit eventually rejoined them with Sara Crispino on his arm, her older twin brother nowhere in sight.

“How did you know?”  Chris asked as they took a breather at the booth, raising his voice to be heard above the music as the Thai skater spun the dainty Sara – who in her heels was as tall as Phichit – into the dance, joining Mila – who was parterned by a very-unhappy-but-blackmailed Yuri – and the pair of Georgi and Anya on the floor.

Viktor laughed, shaking his head.  “He got you to bet against him?”  The Russian demanded, the champagne and the music doing their work to loosen him up a little in the presence of his crush.  “How did you _not_ know?  I’m pretty sure everyone who was at the last party knew, except maybe Micky.”

“I left early, Vitya.”  Chris pouted into the flute handed over by his wonderful Theo – who was now hopefully enough of a magnum in that he’d join him on the floor and leave Vitya with the current object of his intense focus.  “Remember?”

“That’s right.”  Harry nodded, arching a brow at the icy blond.  “He even missed us dancing.”

“What’s this?”  Chris arched a brow.  “You two shared a dance?”  His pout deepened.  “And no one _told me_?”  Why was he being left out of the loop all of a sudden?

“Because most everyone was three-sheets by the time we left love.”  Theo told him with a sardonic look towards the newly-refreshed ice bucket.  If he had the current count right, so far a group of less than ten skaters had plowed through three magnums of champagne and were working on their fourth, putting away over four-and-a-half liters of the sparkling wine and going for six.

Athletes and their metabolisms, Theo snorted mentally, eyeing up his own flute.  He’d know, after all.

Still, it wasn’t often – current series of events aside – that some of them were even within tasting distance of Cristal.

Not all of them had the depth of pockets as Nikiforov and Evans – or even his own dear spoiled Christophe.

“Hangovers aplenty the next morning, Chris.”  Harry told him with a salute of his own glass – that was one of the only ones _not_ filled with champagne but instead cognac that he cradled in one hand, warming it with his body heat and sipping the smooth French concoction with loving slowness.  “I’d have been more surprised if there _weren’t_ hookups.”

“Come on.”  Chris grabbed Theo’s hand, not willing to concede the point, and tugging him out onto the floor.  “You’re tipsy enough to twirl me around now, lover.”

“Fine, fine.”  Theo grumbled with a put-upon sigh.  “No blaming me if I trip all over you – or myself.”

“Of course not…”

Their voices trailed off as the pair wandered onto the floor, Theo doing a better job than he gave himself credit for keeping up with his highly-trained lover.

“No company tonight?”  Viktor decided to broach the elephant in the room, putting his fear of outright rejection away in place of drumming up some confidence.  If he’d figured out anything from watching the younger man with his two lovers, _confidence_ seemed to be something he liked…well, that and dark hair.  But short of dying his own lovely blond – something he wouldn’t do no matter _how_ much he liked Harry – there was nothing he could do about that.  Besides which, having only two others to compare himself to wasn’t much, and could be a complete coincidence.

“Hmm.”  Harry arched a brow.  “Lorcan isn’t exactly attached at my hip, Viktor.”  He smiled knowingly.  “We’re both free men, and more than capable of _entertaining_ ourselves without the other.  He’s my _friend_.”  He stressed, more than over having to have this same conversation about Lo’ with people all over the world.  The most intrusive of which were the press, following directly by his own fathers.  “And since you were there in Prague, you’re well aware of why my Viktor isn’t here either.”

“Mmm.”  Viktor hummed under his breath, arching a brow of his own.  “That _was_ quite the scene wasn’t it.”  He leaned in closer to the man on the other side of the booth.  “Forgive me for asking…but if you’re staunchly only _friends_ with these men, why the need to have a very-public break up with one of them…if there was nothing to break in the first place?”

Harry took a long sip of his Louis XIII, absorbing that blow to his comfortable bubble of self-delusion with seeming equanimity that hid the very real and very deep bruising inside of himself that he’d been dealing with for weeks.

Why _had_ he felt the need to do that?

At this point, it was obvious to everyone _including_ himself, that Harry was fooling no one with his pantomime of “just friends” with either the now-defunct Viktor Krum or his current-and-only “suitor” Lorcan.

But that pantomime was one he’d began to keep himself – and his too-tender heart – safe.

If he let go of it…what did he have left to protect himself from threats to it?

Threats like the man across from him, who was proving all-too-good at rattling Harry’s composure.

“It seemed the thing to do at the time.”  Harry finally explained, taking a way through the conversation that would – hopefully – prevent him from revealing too much.  “Viktor showed up, clearly _off_ if you know what I mean…”

The Viktor across from him nodded knowingly, a practiced lover of some renown, he was well aware of being able to tell when something just wasn’t _right_ with a lover – or a friend – even if you didn’t know what was wrong.

Content with his audience following along – even if he wasn’t nearly as at ease with the subject as he was trying to portray himself – Harry continued.

“It was the night before our short programs that he finally came out with it.”  Harry gave an ugly chuckle that contained far-too-much pain for the dissolution of a “friends with benefits” arrangement, in Viktor’s opinion.  “What great timing, yeah?”

“What was going on?”

“His father.”  Harry shrugged with practiced nonchalance.  “I guess Branislav was tired of waiting for Vit’ka to settle down and decided to force the issue.”

“Cut him off?”

Harry snorted.  “Nothing so drastic.”  He drawled.  “That would’ve just pushed Vit’ka right out the door.  No.  He “arranged” for Vit’ka to marry some bint from France.”

“An arranged marriage?”  Viktor’s pale brows shot sky-high.  “In 2017?”

“Yep.”  Harry popped the ‘p’ on the word.  “With an out.”  He smirked, toasting the absent Branislav Krum with his glass.  “Me.”

“You _are_ wealthy, aren’t you?”  Viktor mused, eyeing up the designer leather pants and the silk shirt that screamed of personal tailoring and Italian or French fashion houses.  “It’s not just your rocker spoiling you.”

“Yes, and no.”  Harry smirked, tossing back the rest of his cognac with less respect than the fine brandy deserved, a waitress – not the one who’d gotten Viktor’s hackles up – appearing within moments to top him back up.  “Branislav was willing to _overlook_ ,” Harry lied through his teeth, not able to explain same-sex marriage and male pregnancy being excepted in the wizarding world to a muggle.  “My gender because of the connections I came with.  I believe surrogacy would’ve been on the table for an heir.”

“But you weren’t willing to go along.”  Viktor nodded.  “So you were hit with an ultimatium but it didn’t go the way your _Vit’ka_ thought it would.”

“I think he was only half-hopeful.”  Harry admitted.  “Vit’ka’s known me for…”  He frowned lightly in thought.  “Five years?  Or thereabouts.  Long before we started seeing each other almost two years ago now.  At the time I was actively dating someone – it didn’t end well – before starting up a casual thing with a mutual friend of us both.”  He shrugged.  “Vit’ka was _aware_ that I wasn’t likely to go along with his father’s plans.  But what pissed me right the fuck off…”

“Was the timing.”  Viktor cut him off, finally understanding what had possessed the younger man to make a scene – both on and off the ice.  A scene which had cost Krum a lot more in the papers and gossip sites than it had Harry from what he’d seen.  Harry was still just as – if not more – popular as he’d always been.  “During a competition?”  Viktor snorted with disgust.  “Should’ve made an excuse to not come before he laid that on you at a Championship.  Though.”  He arched a brow.  “At least now I know why you were skating like a man possessed.  I haven’t viewed the crowd from the lower podiums in years.  It was…humbling.”

“Well.”  Harry cleared his throat looking away.  “It certainly didn’t hurt your confidence any, Mr. World Champion.”

“You’ll get there.”  Viktor said with the surety of a seasoned skater who was used to sizing up his competition.  “Whether against me or someone else, I have not a doubt in my mind that you’ll be a champion for many years to come, Harry Evans.”  He toasted the other man.  “I’d bet my medals on it.  Now…”  He asked leadingly as the guitarist swung into a familiar riff.  “Could I interest you in a dance?”

Harry cocked his head as “Into the Night” rocketed out across the club, eyeing the older man in bemusement.

“I’m not really interested in replacing Vit’ka at the moment, Vit _ya_.”

“And I wasn’t offering that.”  Viktor stood gracefully, rounding the table and taking the unresisting man’s hand.  “I definitely wasn’t offering to just be another man on your _roster_ , that’s the expression yes?”  He cupped the younger man’s exquisite face with one smooth palm, tipping Harry’s head up so he couldn’t hide those emerald gems from him.  “No.”  He purred.  “When – and it is _when_ – you come to _my_ bed it won’t be with thoughts of another or on a temporary, rotating basis.  It’ll be because _I_ am your one and only.”  He chuckled, tugging the stunned form of Harry after him and swinging him into the fast-paced Latin beat.  “And _that_ is also something I’ll stake my gold medals on, my lovely Harry.”

…

The next day, Harry reprised his _Magic Man_ performance while Viktor debuted a new exhibition, choreographed fresh for that exact event:  _Feelin’ Good_ with music by Michael Bublé, in the style of a tango so well done that the audience could nearly _see_ the missing partner.

A partner in many minds who were _aware_ of the situation between the gold and silver medalists, who had ebony hair and gem-green eyes.

…

_A/N2: I didn’t want to give away any spoilers so this is at the end: the song/lyrics used belong to Luke Bryan’s “Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye”, which is a great song if you like that particular genre and still fit extremely well with Harry’s current angst even if you don’t._

_I’ve also gotten some questions about Lorcan’s singing voice, I see him as a highly-trained vocalist who’s capable of having a massive range of vocals and styles due to his age.  His current career in my fic is that of more of a hard rock/heavy metal style.  For an audio “mental image” of his voice, I like David Draiman from Disturbed, especially his vocal performance for “Sound of Silence” which really shows off David’s range and abilities.  If you’re interested (it comes up next chapter) I hear Harry as a tenor similar to Mikky Ekko in Rihanna’s “Stay.”_


	7. Seven

** Make Me Feel Alive **

_Author’s Note: I’m taking a lot of liberties with when songs were recorded, written, etc. in this chapter.  For a full list of songs used (and abused) view the note at the end of the chapter, we’re just going to ignore when they were actually recorded and by who for the sake of the story._

**Chapter Seven: Black Dog Records**

Two days after the official end of the skating season found Harry leaning on the wall of his personal skating rink and sucking in deep breaths of air after a punishing morning of practicing jumps.  He had about an hour before he needed to be back on the ice for his afternoon practice – and Cooper should be awake by then to help him with the new routines the two of them were in the middle of creating.  Lorcan had timed his arrival just right.

That still didn’t help his cause.

Harry took one _look_ at the company name at the top of the contract Lorcan handed him and didn’t read any further or listen to Lorcan’s explanation before thrusting it back at Lorcan, the sheaf of papers hitting his chest with a _smack_ , before turning to come off the ice and stretch before cleaning up a bit and having lunch.

“No.”  He said without hesitation.  “No way in _hell_ , Lo’.”

Lorcan could be more annoying than a niffler with the scent of gold, and twice as persistent, when it came to getting his way.

And unfortunately for Harry, he’d made the mistake of _singing_ within the dhampir’s earshot not long after they met, and Lorcan’s quest for him to record had been on-going with minor breaks ever since, the contract with the title “Black Dog Records” at the top only the most recent of the infamous rockstar’s attempts to have Harry’s voice on his songs.

It was _also_ one of the only cases where Harry’s loyalty to his dads didn’t make a damn bit of difference, no matter that Lorcan’s partnership with Sirius _was_ limited Black Dog Records, while Sirius’s dealings with the Tepes Line as a whole were much more complex and far-reaching.

Sirius refused to weigh in on the matter one way or another, knowing from experience with his pup’s parents that pushing him would likely only make him increasingly obstinate as Yakov Feltsman had learned to his detriment.

“It’s a limited contract.”  Lorcan told him, following on the skater’s footsteps as Harry finished stepping out of his skates and into his slip-ons for the quick trip down to the kitchen where Rinky had his lunch ready and waiting – and easily reading his Master’s aura, providing not even a chair for the currently-irritating dhampir.  “Two-fold: a two duets, and being featured in those music videos as well as starring in another video for one of my solo tracks.  You’ll be paid accordingly, it’s not a favor…”  He trailed off then hit Harry where he knew it would hurt.  “It’s favors being called in.”

“How many?”  Harry asked, not even deigning to turn in his chair or look up from his calorie-packed lunch.  Being an athlete made for one hell of a metabolism, with using magic not far behind when it came to the calorie burn.  Being both could be hell on the stomach as any pro-Quidditch player could attest.  There were those who as they were not-in-the-know regarding Harry’s unique feeding needs that were convinced he had three stomachs.

Lorcan resisted the urge to smirk.  He _finally_ had racked up enough favors with Harry that he could call in some to draw the skater more firmly into a facet of his world without wiping the slate clean.  He’d _never_ call in a final favor.  Not so long as there was the merest flicker of hope to convince Harry to take his rightful place as Lorcan’s consort.

As long as Lorcan held a single marker for Harry’s word, he had a connection he could use, an advantage he had zero intention of ever losing.

“The arrangement for _Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye_ was outside our existing contract for skating arrangements.”  Lorcan ticked off a finger.  “The party and the banquet.  Three for three, an even swap.”

“The hell it is.”  Harry snorted, finally turning to straddle the chair and face the dhampir leaning against the bar in his dining room.  “Music videos for the two songs you want my vocals on push it over the edge of _even_ , and that disregards any appearances I’ll probably get sucked into.  Clear the slate, Lo’.”  Harry demanded, eyes hard.

“You know I won’t do that.”  Lorcan clenched his jaw eyes sparking.

“Yes I do.”  Harry nodded, rising and stalking over to the dhampir as if he was pure sin given breath and form, bracing his hands on the solid cherry wood bar and bracketing the taller – even if only by an inch – male with his more muscular form.  “And I am well aware of just _why_.”  He arched a brow at the look of surprise that flickered across the aged male’s face for a fraction of a second.  “What?”  He sneered a bit, the look edging his normally handsome face into the realms of dangerous beauty.  “You thought I didn’t _know_ what you want from me?”  He drawled.  “I’m young, Lorcan.  That doesn’t make me stupid, naïve, or a fool.  Wipe the slate clear, Lorcan.”  He turned, snagging the half-full glass of protein smoothie from the table and sauntering out, speaking with his back turned.  “And I’ll sign the contract.  _Don’t_ and no amount of favors or debts or deals will ever see me living in the halls of the Tepes Line.”  He glanced back, emerald eyes gleaming as he smirked with dark promise.  “And you have _my word_ on that.”

“I’m an immortal, lover.”  Lorcan spoke at last, well aware that the spells embedded in the apartment would carry his words to Harry’s ears.  “Play with your skater, with your Quidditch player, with the entire male half of the wizarding world.  Marry, have children, avoid me if you will for decades at a time.  And I will still come to you as you breathe your last breath and offer you your true place at my side.  A day or a hundred years…what does it matter in the sands of eternity?”

…

Standing in the recording studio, about to lay down the vocals for the third and final track that Lorcan had – _somehow_ – maneuvered him into agreeing to add to his already overflowing plate.

Looking through the glass of the booth to where Lorcan was watching him lay down his vocals, he spoke into the mic knowing it would be projected into the studio.

“I don’t know if I can sing this Lo’.”  He said, voice shaking with nerves.  Doing the duets had been difficult, leading to more than one fight between the two of them over the arrangements and who led when, etc.  This was a whole new level of anxiety.  He didn’t have a backup, only the slightest bit that Lorcan would go back and had a background vocal to here or there in the chorus.

It was all on him.

On his voice, which he didn’t have nearly the same confidence in as Lorcan and even his dad who had agreed with Lo’ – for once – that the song was perfect for Harry, much more so than Lorcan who had actually written the lyrics…and wasn’t that a statement considering the content of said lyrics.

Lorcan leaned in and held down the button to project his voice into the booth.

“Yes, you can, Harry.”  He told him firmly, unshakeable in his belief that the other man could pull off the song.  “You just have to get in the right space, like you do when you skate.”  He said thinking, then gave a mental sigh, knowing _exactly_ what would get Harry in the right mood.  “Think of Blaise, and your Bulgarian.  Hell,” he snorted, thinking of the fight over Harry doing _any_ work with Black Dog let along with him.  “Think of me and how I _convinced_ you do to this.”

Emerald eyes sparked and Harry nodded, settling the headphones on his ears.

…

Lorcan thought Harry was hard to deal with sometimes when it came to his utter focus on his skating career.

He had _no fucking idea_ the hurricane of dramatics and diva-behavior his decision to coerce him into spending part of his valuable summer break from the skating season in the recording studio in Paris or having to be on-set for the agreed-upon music videos.

At Harry’s insistence – and being the son of one of the co-owners and the lover of the other, Harry could _insist_ on quite a bit – everything involving him was done on the weekends to infringe on his practices as little as possible…but which restricted his free time in turn, free time that he usually spent with his friend and family, which had Sirius and Remus, even little Rome, more incensed with the dhampir than usual.

To make matters worse, the video that Harry “starred” in but wasn’t required to sing on the track of, was to be filmed in his own apartment as the song “Loaded and Alone” was about a young man who chased fame to the detriment of all else, one of the man lines being “ _he’s got money, but he’s way off track_ ,” or the hook from which the title came _“He’s loaded and alone_.”

By the time everything was wrapped and July was closing in on Harry’s birthday, Lorcan was indescribably glad that his upcoming press tour and then concert tour would have him far out of hexing distance for almost a year, Harry’s fearsome temper had become so volcanic over the issue, regardless that he’d succeeded in a matter which his fathers hadn’t held out hope of accomplishing: clearing the slate between the two famous-and/or-infamous males.

Still, the fuel of Harry’s partnership – albeit in a temporary business sense rather than the salacious sort that the press usually liked to rant about – with Lorcan merely added to the inferno that was close to raging out of control in Wizarding Britain…and Harry with his laser-lock focus on the upcoming Olympic season very much none the wiser.

For a time, anyway, a time that quickly drew to a close as his birthday drew near and with it the annual celebrations that his fathers hosted in his honor.

…

It was July 29th when it happened.

Viktor was at the rink – as usual – though working with Yuri on his _Agape_ performance.  Viktor still wasn’t sure _what_ he was going to do with the sister-routine _Eros_ but he’d find a use for it eventually or turn it into an exhibition or something.  In the end his little-brother-kitten had conned him into choreographing both of his routines, though the Free Skate was still on-going with _plenty_ of feedback from his grandmother and Yuri’s new ballet coach Lilia who loved Viktor’s idea of bookending _Agape_ with _Knave of Hearts_ from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland…even if she was still disdainful over Yuri’s being “exceptionally unexceptional.”

He knew better than _anyone_ how rough and gruff Lilia could be, blunt to the point of pain, the latter of which Yakov had accused her many times of handing down her genetics on to her grandson Viktor.

Yuri and Viktor were on the ice, working on adjusting his jump combination for _Agape_ a little bit since Yuri had started puberty hell and was in the middle of shooting up in height, even if he still wasn’t putting on much in bulk despite the extra workouts that went hand-in-hand with competing at the Senior level.

The Ice Kitten – _Tiger_ , the Ice _Tiger_ as Yuri never stopped correcting him…and he was getting to the point where Kitten didn’t quite fit anymore – would be able to pull off _Agape_ this year but after that, who knew what he’d end up looking like and how he’d need to tailor his routines?

Then they heard Mila squealing, a great deal of chattering from the female contingent who were taking a break on the bleachers, and the sound of footsteps thundering down the steps to the wall by the ice, Mila waving her phone frenetically to get their attention as she hopped around despite the barking Yakov was doing over the display – and her distracting the boys.

“Yuratchka!  Vitya!”  Mila was yelling.  “You _have_ to come see!  It’s _all over_ social media! _Soo awesome!_ ”  And hot, very very hot but with Yakov already pissed off she wasn’t going to push it.

Rolling their eyes in unison, the blonds both shrugged and sighed then skated over to see whatever she was fussing about, knowing that it would be easier – and quicker – for all involved if they just gave in, some of the other guys on the ice joining them as Yakov threw up his hands and stalked off.

The coach was already huffing and puffing over three of his skaters taking a long five-day weekend starting the next day to go to Harry Evans’s birthday party in London, adding Mila’s outburst during the last practice before they left was like adding gasoline onto a forest fire…and had everyone else glaring at them and ducking their coach.

They already knew that Mila had been watching the stupid Frenchman Lorcan’s social media like a hawk.

Early in the summer Black Dog Records had announced that they had a “special surprise” coming for the pre-album release party which was happening pretty much at this exact same time in Los Angeles.  Two songs/singles had already been released for radio along with their music videos, with teasers about the other releases coming in late July/early August which had whipped his fans into a frenzy.  Especially when it had been “leaked” – which Viktor was skeptical of but the Frenchman’s fans had eaten up – that all three of them would be a collaboration of one kind or another.

They were all hyped because Lorcan was infamous for refusing all offers at collaborations, so his sudden reversal of the well-known and often lamented stances had them on tenterhooks to find out who it was with and how it’d come about.

Which if her ecstatic expression was anything to go by, Mila’s anticipation had been well-rewarded by the rockstar.

“It’s Harry.”  She whisper/screamed at them once they were close enough, hugging her phone to her chest.  The guys all stepped off the ice and started swapping out their skates at a bellow from Yakov to break for “Lunch.”

“What is?”  Viktor asked, confused, as they wandered into the kitchen area and started filling their plates or bowls with the day’s offerings, taking out his own phone and navigating his way to his green-eyed vixen’s social media pages at the name from Mila.

“Lorcan’s collaborator.”  She savored the words as if they were a particularly luscious piece of chocolate, netting her a sneer from Yuri for her efforts.  “He starred in a music video, did two duets with Lorcan, and even has a solo-single.  All the music videos are up.”  She directed that solely at Viktor, knowing how the older skater was pining – a lot – over the younger man.  “And he looks _divine_ …and sexy as hell.”

“That idiot Brit sings?”  Yuri scowled, avowedly _not_ looking at either his own phone or at Mila’s or Viktor’s.  He didn’t care.  At least until he was home alone and there was no one to know except for his cat.  “And why the hell would he be in that stupid Frenchman’s music video?”

Mila shrugged.  “You’ll have to see for yourself.  Though taken together, the songs all make for a pretty grim picture of what Harry’s love-life is like.  I certainly hope they weren’t drawing on real life too much for inspiration…especially for Loaded and Alone.”

“Hmm.”  Was the all answer Viktor gave her before putting his ear buds in and blocking them all out as he absently shoveled forks full of chicken and salad into his mouth, eyes locked to the tiny screen of his phone.

One look at Harry in the first video – according to the suggested watching order the d’EathVevo had up – and he knew he’d be watching them all again later…much later and on his big-screen TV where he could ogle the object of his lusty affections in private.

Black Dog Records said to watch them in the following order: _“Use Me”_ which was on of the duets, _“One More Night_ ,” the second duet, then _“Loaded and Alone”_ where Harry starred but didn’t sing _,_ and ending with Harry’s solo track _“I Miss the Misery._ ”  All four of the songs were emotive, as Mila’s words had implied, and Viktor after just one listen-through of “Loaded and Alone” had to agree that he hoped it didn’t take too much from what Harry’s life was actually like.  To him it sounded more like a caricature of what his life _could have been_ if he hadn’t been more stubborn when faced with Yakov’s demands.  Honestly…in a lot of ways it mirrored Viktor’s or Yuri’s lives more than it did Harry’s, though they all had a group of friends, not being as removed from people by fame and its pursuit as the character Harry was portraying to match d’Eath’s lyrics.

There was a clear story being told by the four songs – though true-to-life or completely fictional or as Viktor thought somewhere in between only Harry and d’Eath knew.

The story started with “Use Me” where interesting enough, d’Eath and Harry would trade off, one singing a line then the other, with Lorcan using female pronouns and Harry male, with both the them being backed up by Lorcan’s band members.  With the music video set in a massive house party filled with beautiful people, it was an anthem for the hard-living hard-loving lifestyle that d’Eath exuded.  The video followed d’Eath and Harry interchangeable as they danced – or screwed as implied by the camera, especially one scene where Harry, dressed in skin-tight leather that he favored for skating routines, with cut-outs all up and down his pants and _barely_ wearing a necklace around his neck that did more to highlight his chest than cover him – with both each other and the beautiful and scantily clad actors, dancers, and actresses filling the mansion where the video was filmed.

 _“She wouldn't spit on me if I was on fire.”_ Lorcan sang in the video, arm around a blonde in a tiny dress as Harry entered the mansion in skin-tight leather, pulling a pass to the “party” out of the waistband, arching a brow at the bouncer as his voice was overlaid over the screen:  “He says he loves me, but I know he's a liar.”  The two of them trading off like that all through the video as Viktor’s eyes – much like d’Eath’s and many others at the staged “party” – didn’t know whether to lock on Harry’s glistening muscles or his leather-clad ass and thighs as the skater danced and sang, making Viktor and ninety-percent of red-blooded humans drool and think of nothing but walking-breathing-dancing temptation.

Hot – and more than a little hard – Viktor paused a moment before allowing the next video in the queue to load, taking a long drink from his ice water as Yuri rolled his eyes and wandered back to the rink, Mila patting his back with an understanding smile.

Viktor would be a little late coming back from lunch, especially if he made it through all four videos.

Since if he thought the first one was bad for presenting Harry as too-hot-to-handle, the last one would blow his mind.

He was relieved to find that the second one – while still showing off Harry and his surprising vocal abilities – was much _tamer_ than the first.

The lyrics and the way it was recorded however, turned it very much into a vocal duel between two men who were infamously tight-lipped about putting a label on their relationship/not-relationship _thing_ that they had going on – and had had going on for at least several years from what Viktor understood.

They were shown in three different locations: d’Eath up on a stage performing in his silk and denim, Harry on the ice skating in his _Shatter Me_ costume, and the two of them together and separately at another mansion, this one as a fictional home that the two obviously shared as lovers wearing what passed as “lounge” wear Harry once more topless with bare feet and ratty sweatpants while d’Eath wore silk pajama bottoms and a t-shirt.

It opened with Harry standing at a sink, hands braced on the porcelain and head bowed, then when he lifted his head the lyrics began, Harry singing first while Lorcan sang his lines to a packed crowd in an apparently sold-out club the camera switching between the two scenes as Harry packed a bag with practice clothes and threw on a zip-up hoodie and trainers and headed to the rink, Lorcan arriving as Harry was leaving with barely a glance exchanged between them as they sang the chorus in unison.

“You and I go hard at each other like we're going to war,” rang out in Harry’s tenor, then:

 _“You and I go rough, we keep throwing things and slamming the door,”_ crooned d’Eath.

“You and I get so damn dysfunctional, we start keeping score, _You and I get sick, yeah I know that we can't do this no more…”_

“But baby there you go again, there you go again, making me love you

Yeah I stopped using my head, using my head, let it all go

Got you stuck on my body, on my body like a tattoo

And now I'm feeling stupid, feeling stupid coming back to you

So I cross my heart and I hope to die

That I'll only stay with you one more night

And I know I said it a million times

But I'll only stay with you one more night…”

The second verse picked up as Lorcan entered the house while Harry changed into his costume at the rink, a shifting and excited crowed shown in a sold-out stadium, the pair once more trading lines as d’Eath’s movements through the house showed a history – mostly fictional Viktor thought – between the couple playing out through photos.

 _“Try to tell you no but my body keeps on telling you yes,”_ came d’Eath’s lead-in to the verse, with Harry following right on his vocal heels:  “Try to tell you stop but your lips got me so out of breath.”

“ _I'll be waking up in the morning probably hating myself,”_ d’Eath sang with a regretful shake of his head while Harry smirked through his lines as he hit the ice:  “And I'll be waking up feeling satisfied but guilty as hell.”

“But baby there you go again, there you go again, making me love you

And I stopped using my head, using my head, let it all go 

Got you stuck on my body, on my body like a tattoo

And now I'm feeling stupid, feeling stupid running back to you

So I cross my heart and I hope to die

That I'll only stay with you one more night

And I know I said it a million times

But I'll only stay with you one more night…”

This time the chorus highlighted Lorcan getting ready for bed, stripping down to the silk bottoms and t-shirt while Harry showed off pieces of his routine in jumps and spins, the two trading off the bridge as d’Eath slid in between silk sheets and Harry mounted a platform with his European Championship Gold around his neck.

“Yeah baby give me one more night…”  Was drawled to an adoring crowd of fans while: “ _Yeah baby give me one more night...”_ was whispered into an empty side of the bed.

“Yeah baby give me one more night.”

Viktor’s heart hurt – almost – for d’Eath as he sang the refrain to an empty bed – and house:

“ _Baby there you go again, there you go again, making me love you_

_And I stopped using my head, using my head, let it all go_

_Got you stuck on my body, on my body like a tattoo.”_

Then their voices came back together as Harry was shown signing autographs and rushing home to his waiting rockstar, the two sharing a kiss before the video faded out back to the club and stage where they sang the last refrain directly to each other with smiles on their faces, d’Eath in his silk and denim and Harry in a silk-mesh shirt and another pair of leather trousers.

“Yeah, _yeah,_ yeah, yeah…

So I cross my heart and I hope to die

That I'll only stay with you one more night

And I know I said it a million times

But I'll only stay with you one more night

(Yeah baby give me one more night)

So I cross my heart and I hope to die

That I'll only stay with you one more night

And I know I said it a million times

But I'll only stay with you one more night.”

Almost hypnotized, Viktor clicked the link to the next song, noting absently that it was the one called _Loaded and Alone_ that Mila had commented on, which Harry only starred in and hadn’t sang on the track.

_“He's got money, but he's way off track_

_So lonely that it makes him think back_

_To his family and his friends and the lady he left back home_

_He's loaded and alone.”_

The video was fast-paced, flicking between Harry in work-out clothes wandering alone around a beautifully-decorated apartment, then actual clips from his performances and crowd reactions, greeting fans, etc.  The main point of the camera work seeming to focus on isolating Harry from everyone and everything, coming to a head and highlighted the most by the recurring scenes of Harry climbing in or out of an empty, cold bed or leaning – again alone – with his arms resting on the railing of a balcony high above the London streets, a wistful look on his handsome face.  Every scene showed Harry surrounded by all the trappings of wealth and fame, the best clothes, beautiful people, but juxtaposed with shots of a younger-Harry surrounded by friends and laughing or goofing off in his childhood or early teens.

_“Still a kid, still a fool_

_Still trying to break all the rules…”_

What was interesting based on some of the comments, was that the apartment shown was supposed to be Harry’s actual home – complete with an interesting display of his medal on one wall that appeared to be a floor-to-ceiling _tree_ with the medals hanging from their ribbons on the branches, a piece that had been featured – again, according to the comments – in a magazine spread that had been done on Harry after he won his European Gold.

_“A big house, with too many rooms_

_An ego, to go with it too_

_He got his fame, fame, fame_

_More than just a little bit of shame, shame, shame_

_That he sold his soul over in_

_Changed his name, never going to get it back, no_

_He's got money, but he's way off track_

_So lonely that it makes him think back_

_To his family and his friends and the lady he left back home_

_He's loaded and alone…”_

Viktor was starting to see the story playing out through the songs, especially since one of the last pictures that was featured in juxtaposition with Harry’s figure-skater/celebrity lifestyle was of d’Eath and Harry standing on a stage together and was clearly a still from the previous music video with the two of them laughing and smiling at each other as they posed for the camera.

Causal-founding/casual relationship – unhealthy relationship – implied breakup; which left him wondering about what the last song would contain, especially since it was supposed to be Harry’s solo-single.  A make-up?  But, no, Viktor didn’t quite think that fit with the theme – or Harry’s personality based on the _Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye_ performance he gave.

What would be the ending of the story?

The music video loaded and Viktor laughed out loud, not caring that his rinkmates – those left in the dining area – all stared at him like he’d finally gone around the bend.

According to the title, it was called _“I Miss the Misery_ ” and a make-up song or a reconciliation it wasn’t.

And best of all, in the pattern of the previous videos, Harry was dressed to kill – or seduce – this time in brown leather pants with a crystal-skull detail riding high on one thigh topped with his Union-Jack leather jacket…no shirt, the whole thing making for one hell of a tease as Harry was shown roaring out the lyrics on a stage to an amped-up crowd or strutting through an empty urban setting all chain-link fences and acres of concrete, the focus of the camera locked on the messily-styled black hair and the faint dusting of glitter on high cheekbones or mile-long legs or glistening golden skin and abs and pecs playing peek-a-boo with brown leather.

“Ohhh, I miss the misery!

 

I've been a mess since you stayed,

I've been a wreck since you changed,

Don't let me get in your way,

I miss the lies and the pain,

The fights that keep us awake-ake-ake

I'm tellin you!

 

I miss the bad things,

The way you hate me,

I miss the screaming,

The way that you blame me!

Miss the phone calls,

When it's your fault,

I miss the late nights,

Don't miss you at all!

I like the kick in the face,

And the things you do to me!

I love the way that it hurts!

I don't miss you, I miss the misery!

 

I've tried but I just can't take it,

I'd rather fight than just fake it (cause I like it

Rough),

You know that I've had enough,

I dare ya to call my bluff,

Can't take to much of a good thing

I'm tellin you!

 

I miss the bad things,

The way you hate me,

I miss the screaming,

The way that you blame me!

Miss the phone calls,

When it's your fault,

I miss the late nights,

Don't miss you at all!

I like the kick in the face,

And the things you do to me!

I love the way that it hurts!

I don't miss you, I miss the misery!

 

Just know that I'll make you hurt,

(I miss the lies and the pain what you did to me)

When you tell me you'll make it worse

(I'd rather fight all night than watch the TV)

I hate that feelin inside

You tell me how hard you'll try

But when we're at our worst

I miss the misery

 

I miss the bad things,

The way you hate me,

I miss the screaming,

The way that you blame me.

 

I miss the rough sex,

Leaves me a mess,

I miss the feeling of pains in my chest!

Miss the phone calls,

When it's your fault,

I miss the late nights,

Don't miss you at all!

I like the kick in the face,

And the things you do to me!

I love the way that it hurts!

I don't miss you, I miss the misery!

 

I don't miss you, I miss the misery!”

 

Harry alternated between crooning, straight-up singing, and distressing his vocals all through the song, the look on his face leaving his invisible audience with zero doubt that no matter what – Harry was done with whoever had inspired it…and making Viktor have on hell of a smirk on his face when he finally made it back to the rink.

Though the lines about liking it rough had made it so Viktor had to stop off at the bathroom before rejoining the others.

“What are you so happy about?”  Yuri asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

He’d expected pissed-off Viktor after he’d sat through several music videos of Harry singing or whatever with that asshole Frenchman, not looking even more dopey than usual.

“I can’t _wait_ to get to London.”  Viktor said with a leer, making Mila laugh and Yuri scowl even deeper than normal at being left out of the joke.

His confusion lasted until that night when he watched the videos for himself, and then he was just grossed the fuck out.

 _That_ was information he could’ve lasted his entire damn _life_ without knowing about Evans – and Vitya.

…

Rome restrained the need to whine – but only barely.

Daddy and Papa had just told him that this year his big brother’s birthday party _wasn’t_ being held at Castle Black the way it was most of the time, or even at Harry’s big new apartment that Daddy bought for Harry last year.

No.

They were holding it at a muggle club, for _grown-ups_.

All of which added up to a singular truth for the little metamorphmagus: _Rome couldn’t go_.

He didn’t really remember – very well at least – Harry’s other birthday parties, which his Papa said was because he was little.

And Harry _had_ come over and they’d had ice cream and cakes and Harry had opened presents.

But still, it wasn’t fair that he had to go over to Mrs. Weasley’s house and spend the night (though she let him eat all kinds of good goodies like cookies and cakes and pies, not that they tell Daddy and Papa that) when his Harry was wearing his fancy-fancy clothes and his Daddy and Papa were also dressed up like when they go out on “dates” where Harry would usually come over and hang out with Rome and tease their dads with him.

It just wasn’t fair!

…

Harry had been pissed – to say the least – when he found out that his activities in the muggle world, namely his skating career, had been outed to the _Prophet_ and by one of his – now former – school friends.

He’d expected it to happen sooner or later, he’d just been hoping for a little longer time-lapse between his professional career and his outing.

Though, granted, he was in large part at fault due to his high-profile non-relationships with both Viktor Krum _and_ Lorcan d’Eath.

Rumors had flown through the wizarding world, many of those resentful over both his status as the “Boy-Who-Lived” and his seeming abandonment of the wizarding world for the muggle, over whether it was even legal – let along fair – for him to compete, siting his ability to “cheat” using magic.

Harry had never been more thankful for Sirius’s ongoing love affair with paranoia than when those rumors had been shot down by the ICW, as they had been informed by Harry himself over his career and had – and will continue – to spot-check the skater to ensure that he wasn’t using magic during his performances _or_ (as some particularly nasty rumors had suggested) to sabotage his competitors.

That avenue of complaint shut down, the rumors downgraded to simple grumbling about his dedication to the muggle sport instead of a “proper-wizarding” sport…such as professional Quidditch.

However, by the time his birthday rolled around and he’d given out an official press statement, most of the wizarding world was back in love with him due to Lorcan’s machinations regarding Harry’s new dip into the musical world.  Which hadn’t been the purpose behind the move, but Lorcan was more than willing to accept any accolades – or favors of the bedroom kind – that came from it.  Due to his touring schedule, Lorcan wasn’t able to make Harry’s party, which was a good thing as it kept him and his irritable business partner Sirius Black on different parts of the globe instead of in the same room.

The ICW had issued a statement themselves, warning against any attempts by the magical populace to cast magic of _any_ kind during _any_ muggle sporting event or competitions, also stating that as was previously announced by the Black Family, Harry Potter-Black was warded against any attempts at kidnapping, including but not limited to anti-portkey wards and anti-side-along warding.

What Harry was happy about was that it allowed him to have a joint muggle/magical party with all of his friends instead having to pick-and-choose, with the location being a muggle club in London that they rented out for the event and Sirius and Remus warded against magic usage on the premises to help “keep the secret.”  His magical friends would still have to watch their mouths, but not their wands, making things a bit easier on them.  Plus, with an open bar, it was a precaution he likely would’ve taken even if the event was wizarding-only.

One time of having to get Neville down from the ceiling where Cedric’s drunken magic had stuck him was enough for one lifetime for Harry _thank-you-very-much_.

With _all_ of his friends invited, even with the club closed to the public, it was going to be filled to the brim, as while the Quidditch season was in full-international-swing, the skating season was on its annual break, allowing his Quidditch friends like Cedric to port-key in with their invites and/or guests, while his skating friends were able to use the plane tickets his dads had sent out, and so on.

Open bar, free transport, and a spread that only could be put on by the literal _army_ of House Elves sworn to the Black family made for one hell of a do, and that was before you added the best DJ on the European club circuit and high-profile names like Harry Potter-Black/Evans, Viktor Krum, Oliver Wood, Viktor Nikiforov, and many, many more.

“Looking good, pup.”  Sirius commented as they pushed through the doors into the already dark-and-filling club, the party-goers letting out a cheer when the DJ announced that the “Birthday Boy” was in the house.

And Harry was, both present and looking good in a stylish grey jacket over a white shirt topping his standard black dragonhide trousers that fit him like a second skin, making anyone who swung his way – and wasn’t related to him – think dirty thoughts.

Including a particular silvery-blond who’d obviously – based on Harry’s appreciative glance as he took in the scene, which featured Vitya front-and-center holding court at the bar with many of their joint skating friends – dressed to catch eyes in a pale blue/white shirt and pants in black that looked touchably soft, some kind of rich hide or maybe a velvety treated silk.

“Packed house.”  Remus said with a smirk as his golden eyes gleamed under the flashing lights, easily taking in the mass of drinking/dancing/partying people.  “Lots of presents for our greedy creature.”

“Have fun.”  Harry told them with an eye roll as he wandered away to get a drink and dance.  “Try not to scandalize all of England, yeah?”

…

_Author’s Note 2:_

_The songs used in this chapter are as follows:_

  1. _“Use Me” – Hinder_
  2. _“One More Night” – Maroon 5_
  3. _“Loaded and Alone” – Hinder_
  4. _“I Miss the Misery” - Halestorm_




End file.
